—I’m only trying to help, and you don’t appreciate it!—says my mother-in-law, while my eye twitches at the mere thought of her assistance…
Sometimes, I catch myself lost in a single dream—to leave. Anywhere will do—another city, the edge of the world, even a village near Canterbury. The farther from my husband’s mother, the better. Otherwise, I might lose my mind. A nervous tic starts whenever I hear her cheery voice: *I’ve brought you something useful! You’ll love it!*
When James and I first married, friends envied me—*You’re so lucky with your mother-in-law!* No nagging, no meddling, not even a pie brought unannounced. At first, it was true—she went out of her way to show support. But beneath the surface, energy brewed like a storm waiting to break. And when it did, it swept away everything we’d built.
She first tried to force a lavish wedding—speeches, banquets, forty guests—but we refused. We dodged that nightmare thanks to her youngest daughter’s graduation, where she redirected her zeal. But she didn’t stop.
We were renting a flat—bright, tidy, perfectly fine. Yet she filled it with *useful things*—chipped plates, forks bent out of shape, and, of course, curtains. Those curtains still haunt my dreams—heavy velvet, cherry-red, riddled with moth holes.
*It’s real velvet! Just mend it, and it’ll be good as new!* she’d insist.
All I could think was—if they’re so perfect, why didn’t *you* hang them?
When we finally saved for our own place—with help from my parents and James’s godparents—I naively hoped for a fresh start. But his mother decided that since she hadn’t contributed financially, she’d *help* another way—by making our hair stand on end.
First came the wallpaper—yellowed, damp, smelling of attic dust. Then she insisted *Uncle Nigel*—a *handyman extraordinaire*—tile the bathroom. His work was crooked, tiles fell within days, grout stained, and we ended up paying proper workers to undo the mess.
Next, the fridge. She hauled it in herself. It roared like a jet engine, smelling as if something had died inside. We threw it out at once, sparking her outrage:
*You just needed to clean it! It would’ve lasted years! Ungrateful!*
Then came the sofa from her cousin’s holiday home. Then a dresser from the seventies. Then a rug that smelled of mildew and age. Each refusal sparked tears, guilt, and accusations.
Now I’m expecting. We hid it as long as possible, but when the bump became obvious, we told her. Instantly, she began gathering *hand-me-downs*—a pram from some Sophie, a crib from Lily, clothes worn by four children.
I don’t *want* my child sleeping in a crib some stranger used. I don’t *want* a pram with broken brakes. I don’t *want* threadbare, washed-out hand-me-downs. It disgusts me. And it stings that no one considers what *I* want.
Her siege continues. I stay silent—pregnancy is no time for battles. James holds the line, refusing, deflecting. But I see him wearing thin. Her energy is boundless, a reactor with no off switch.
Sometimes, I dream of selling the flat, vanishing without a word. I’m not cruel—I just want quiet. Freedom. A life without moth-eaten velvet, possessed appliances, or relics from another era. I want to breathe. To live. To bring my child into a clean, calm, *new* nest—untouched by *kindness* that makes me want to scream.
