**Diary Entry**
“I’m only trying to help, and you don’t appreciate it!” my mother-in-law says, while my eye twitches at yet another one of her ‘kind gestures.’
Sometimes, I find myself daydreaming of just packing up and leaving—anywhere. Another town, the edge of the world, even a village outside Norwich. Anywhere far enough from my husband’s mother, or I’ll lose my mind. My nerves are frayed every time I hear her chirpy voice: “I’ve brought you something useful! You’ll be thrilled!”
When Tom and I first got married, friends gushed about how lucky I was with my mother-in-law. No nagging, no meddling, not even a steak-and-kidney pie without asking. At first, it seemed true—she was supportive, respectful. But underneath, she must’ve been bottling up energy, waiting to explode. And when it did, it shattered everything we’d built.
She first tried to force a lavish wedding on us—full speeches, a five-course meal, fifty guests. We dodged that nightmare only because her youngest daughter’s graduation came up, redirecting her enthusiasm. But she didn’t stop.
Back then, we rented a flat—simple, bright, tidy. But she started dumping ‘essentials’ on us: chipped plates, bent forks you’d fear using, and, of course, the curtains. Those bloody curtains haunt me—burgundy velvet, moth-eaten, reeking of mothballs.
“Just mend the holes, and they’ll be good as new!” she’d insist.
All I could think was—why not hang them in *your* house if they’re so lovely?
When we finally saved enough for our own place—thanks to my parents and Tom’s godparents—I naively hoped for a fresh start. But she decided that since she hadn’t contributed financially, she’d ‘help’ in other ways. And ‘help’ meant anything that left us horrified.
First came the wallpaper. Decades old, peeling, smelling of damp attic. Then she insisted we hire “Uncle Frank”—her ‘handyman’ mate—to tile the bathroom. The man botched it; tiles fell within a week, grout turned mouldy, and we ended up paying proper tradesmen to undo his ‘free favour.’
Next, the fridge. She hauled it in herself. It groaned like a jet engine, and the stench—like something had died inside. We binned it the same day, but she acted like we’d thrown out a treasure.
“It just needed a scrub! It’d have lasted you years! So ungrateful!”
Then came the cousin’s garden shed sofa. The vintage sideboard. The musty old rug. Each time we refused, it was the same—tears, accusations, guilt.
Now I’m expecting. We hid it, but once the bump showed, the truth was out. And just like that, she’s collecting second-hand ‘heirlooms’: a pram from some Sarah, a crib from Emma, clothes worn by four other babies…
But I don’t want it. I don’t want my child sleeping in a crib with who-knows-what history. I don’t want a pram with dodgy brakes. I don’t want faded hand-me-downs. It’s not about pride—it’s about choice. And it stings that no one listens.
Now she’s relentless. I stay quiet—pregnancy’s no time for rows. Tom handles it, shielding me, but I see him wearing thin. Her energy’s nuclear, endless.
Sometimes, I fantasise about selling up and vanishing. Not out of spite—just for quiet. For freedom. For a life without velvet nightmares, haunted fridges, and relics from another era. I just want to breathe, to live, to raise our child in a clean, calm, *new* nest. No ‘kindness’ that makes me want to scream.
**Lesson learned:** Good intentions aren’t always good enough. Boundaries matter—even with family.
