“I’m only trying to help! And you don’t even appreciate it!” My mother-in-law’s voice grates against my nerves, and I can feel my eye twitching again.
Sometimes, I catch myself daydreaming of just… leaving. Anywhere—another city, the far edge of the world, even some village near Canterbury. As long as it’s far from my husband’s mother. Because if I stay here, I’ll lose my mind. My nerves fray a little more each time I hear her cheerful chirp: “I’ve brought you something useful! You’ll be delighted!”
When James and I first married, friends gushed with envy. “You’ve hit the jackpot,” they said. “A mother-in-law who doesn’t nag, doesn’t meddle, doesn’t even bring unasked-for pies.” And at first, it was true—she went out of her way to show support. But somewhere inside her, a storm was brewing, waiting to break. And when it did, it swept away every boundary we’d set.
First, she tried to force a lavish wedding on us—speeches, a five-course meal, fifty guests. We barely escaped that nightmare by hiding behind her youngest daughter’s graduation, where she redirected all that manic energy. But it didn’t stop there.
We were renting then—a cosy, sunlit flat—but she started hauling in “useful things.” Chipped plates, bent forks you wouldn’t dare eat with, and, of course, the curtains. Those bloody curtains still haunt my dreams—velvet, burgundy, moth-eaten.
“Just sew up the holes, good as new!” she’d chirp.
All I could think was: If they’re so perfect, why not hang them in *your* house?
When we finally scraped together enough for our own place—thanks to my parents and James’ godparents—I naively thought life would change. But his mother decided that since she hadn’t contributed financially, she’d “help” in other ways. Help that left us wide-eyed with horror.
First came the wallpaper. Decades old, faded, musty—reeking of mildew. Then she insisted her handyman friend, “Uncle Frank,” tile the bathroom. Half the tiles cracked within a week, the grout turned black, and we ended up paying professionals to undo his “expert” work.
Next, the fridge. She practically carried it in herself. It roared like a jet engine, and the stench—God, like something had died inside. We dumped it the same day. Cue the theatrics:
“You just needed to scrub it! It had years left in it! Ungrateful, the lot of you!”
Then came the sofa from her cousin’s country house. The clunky, 1970s sideboard. The rug that smelled of damp and dust. Every refusal sparked tears, guilt, accusations.
Now, I’m pregnant. We kept it quiet, but the bump gave us away. And just like that—she’s gathering “hand-me-downs.” A pram from some Sarah, a cot from Emily, baby clothes worn by four other children.
I don’t *want* it. I don’t want my child sleeping in some stranger’s cot. I don’t want a pram with dodgy brakes. I don’t want faded, threadbare onesies. It’s not ungratefulness—it’s pride. And it stings that my feelings don’t matter.
She’s relentless. I stay silent—pregnancy’s no time for battles. James holds the line, refusing, deflecting. But I see it wearing him down. Her energy? Limitless. A nuclear reactor with no off-switch.
Sometimes, I dream of selling up, vanishing. Not out of spite. Just for quiet. For *air*. For a home that’s ours—uncluttered, peaceful, free of “gifts” that suffocate. I want to breathe. To live. To raise our child in a warm, *new* nest. Without “kindness” that feels like a straitjacket.
