”—I’m only trying to help, and you don’t even appreciate it!” snaps my mother-in-law, while my eye twitches involuntarily at the very thought of her *help*.
Sometimes, I’m lost in just one dream—escape. Anywhere. Another city, the edge of the world, even a quiet village near Canterbury. So long as it’s far, far away from my husband’s mother. Otherwise, I’ll lose my mind. A nervous tic starts up in my cheek every time I hear her cheerful trill: *”I’ve brought something you’ll adore!”*
When Harry and I first married, friends gushed with envy—*you’ve hit the jackpot with a mother-in-law like that!* No nagging, no meddling, not even a crumb of unwanted cake. At first, it was true. She went out of her way to show support. But beneath the surface, a dam was building—pressure coiling tighter until it burst, sweeping away every boundary we’d set.
She first tried to foist upon us a lavish wedding—*speeches!* *sit-down dinners!* *forty guests, minimum!*—but we dodged that disaster, thanks to her youngest daughter’s graduation. All that manic energy got rerouted there. But it didn’t stop.
Back then, we rented a flat. A decent one—bright, clean, uncluttered. Then she started delivering *”essentials”*—chipped dinner plates, forks bent like modern art, and, of course, the *curtains*. Those bloody curtains still haunt me—velvet, crimson as old wine, moth-eaten at the edges.
*”It’s proper velvet! Just stitch the holes, and it’ll be brand new!”* she beamed.
And all I could think: *If they’re so perfect, why didn’t you hang them in your own house?*
When we finally scraped together enough for our own place—thanks to my parents and Harry’s godparents—I foolishly hoped for a fresh start. But Mother-in-Law decided that since she hadn’t contributed financially, she’d *help* in other ways. *”Help”* meaning anything that left us gaping in horror.
First came the wallpaper. Older than me, probably. Faded, musty, reeking of damp. Then she insisted we hire *”Uncle Dave,”* a *”handyman genius”* to tile the bathroom. His *genius* left wonky squares peeling off within a week, grout staining like a bad watercolour. We paid proper tradesmen triple to fix his *”favour.”*
Next, the fridge. She *dragged* it in herself, humming like a jet engine. The stench—like something had *died* inside. Harry and I turfed it out that same day. Cue the meltdown:
*”It just needed a scrub! Would’ve lasted you a decade! So ungrateful!”*
Then came the cousin’s cast-off sofa. Then the hulking sideboard from the 1970s. Then the rug that smelled of mildew and memories. Each refusal sparked the same cycle—tears, sulks, accusations.
Now I’m expecting. We kept it quiet, but when the bump grew undeniable, we told her. And just like that—she began stockpiling *”hand-me-down treasures”*: a pram *”barely used by Sophie!”*, a cot *”Natalie’s kids outgrew!”*, clothes worn by *four* children before mine.
I don’t *want* it. I won’t have my baby sleeping in some strange cot with who-knows-what stains. Won’t wheel him in a buggy with dodgy brakes. Won’t dress him in threadbare onesies washed into grey. It repulses me. And it *hurts* that my voice means nothing.
The siege continues. I stay silent—pregnancy isn’t the time for battles. Harry mans the barricades, fending her off with excuses and refusals. But I see it—he’s exhausted. Her energy is nuclear. And there’s no end in sight.
Sometimes, I dream of selling up, vanishing without a forwarding address. I’m not cruel. I just want *quiet*. Freedom. A life without velvet curtains, phantom fridges, and rugs that belong in a museum. To *breathe*. To *live*. To welcome our baby into a home that’s *ours*—new, clean, calm. No more *”kindness”* that makes me want to scream into the void.
