No Day Without Mother-in-Law: How Another Woman Turned My Life Into a Living Nightmare
When Oliver and I got married, our first—and what seemed at the time like a wise—decision was to live apart from his parents. He worked as an engineer at a respectable private firm, and I put my share from selling my grandmother’s flat into our mortgage. We began building our nest, dreaming of peace, cosiness, and a family of our own. But who could’ve guessed his mother would move in with us, without ever setting foot through the door?
She wasn’t physically there. Yet she was in every socket, every cupboard, every teaspoon. No decision, no purchase, no event escaped her eager involvement—whether it was choosing a kettle, curtains, or even a bathmat.
Mention needing new curtains, and she’d appear out of thin air, armed with binders, catalogues, and an endless stream of advice. For holidays, she’d script everything like we were performing in a village pantomime. Once, Oliver and I planned to celebrate New Year’s at a countryside cottage. Everything was paid for—groceries bought, transport arranged. But she staged such a performance that even Olivier would’ve given a standing ovation. Tears, guilt-trips, wailing: *”Abandoning your own mother on such a night!”* In the end, we stayed home, lost the money, and she spent the evening criticising the telly actors from her armchair, looking every bit the queen on her throne.
When I finally got pregnant, Oliver and I decided to turn the guest room into a nursery. We barely mentioned it in passing… The next morning, she was at the door with two workmen and rolls of wallpaper under her arms. I didn’t even get a word in—the renovation began. *Her* plan. *Her* colours. *Her* vision. And there I stood, a stranger in my own home.
I’ve told Oliver a hundred times how suffocated I feel. That I don’t feel like the lady of the house. That I want to choose things myself—from wallpaper to dish sponges. But the reply is always the same: *”Mum just wants to help. She’s got good taste. She does it out of love.”* And what about *my* love? *My* wants? *My* taste? Or do they not matter because I didn’t birth *”such a wonderful son”*?
Then came the final act. She marched in and declared, triumphantly: *”Oliver and I are going on holiday. To Spain. I need to recover—I’ve been carrying this family on my back.”* There I stood, seven months pregnant, speechless. Not a single word. Oliver mumbled something about not being able to let her go alone. I told him plainly: if he went with her, he could forget he had a wife.
The result? She burst into the house, shrieking that I was jealous. That she’d *”birthed and raised my husband,”* and here I was, ungrateful. That I couldn’t go because I’d *”stuffed myself with a belly,”* and now I was stopping her from getting a single break from *”this thankless life.”* And after all she’d done for us…
I don’t know what’s right anymore. I’m exhausted living as three in a marriage meant for two. I don’t want to fight, but I can’t accept this either. I feel myself disappearing—as a woman, a wife, a future mother. I’m terrified that once the baby comes, she’ll pick not just the nappies but the name, the school, even who they’re allowed to befriend.
Girls, any advice on surviving a *”golden”* mother-in-law like this? Or is it hopeless? Should I just accept that she’ll haunt me till the end of my days—like a shadow, like static noise, like a voiceover that’s always louder than mine?
Write back. I don’t know how to fight this madness anymore.
