We had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from meddling in our flat.
My husband and I have been married for a year now, and all this time, his mother has refused to accept that her son didn’t follow her script. She’d dreamed of him marrying some tycoon’s daughter, so he could drown in luxury and drag her along with him. Where she got such ambitions is a mystery. In reality, we’re an ordinary couple—tightened our belts at first, took out a mortgage, and now we live in my one-bedroom flat while renting out our new place. Our next goal is buying a car. Just like most young couples. Nothing fancy, but we’re not scraping by either.
Yet she stubbornly clings to her fantasies and refuses to accept reality. She won’t stop trying to wreck our marriage. Her methods are impressively inventive: she’s planted lipstick stains on my husband’s shirts, made his clothes reek of women’s perfume, and even slipped condoms into my handbag. Of course, it led to rows, distrust, and arguments. Thankfully, we always figured it out—but the bitterness lingered.
Recently, my husband was offered a two-month assignment in a nearby city—his company was expanding, and he was sent to oversee the launch. It was a career opportunity, so we agreed he’d go. Once he left, I carried on as usual.
After a few days, I noticed things out of place—someone had clearly been rummaging through the wardrobe. At first, I assumed my husband had popped back for something since it wasn’t far. I rang him—he was baffled and swore he hadn’t come home. An hour later, he called back, voice grim. He suspected his mother was behind it. Years ago, before a trip, he’d given her a spare key “just in case” and never asked for it back.
The next day, I took time off work and had the locks changed immediately. I warned my husband that if he ever handed out keys again, he’d be sleeping on the landing. That evening, everything in the flat was tidy again—proof it had been her. I decided to check the wardrobe and found… a tiny hidden camera tucked on the top shelf.
I called my husband at once. He went silent, then burst out laughing—probably from shock. I searched the flat thoroughly, relieved to find nothing else. I didn’t make a scene; he asked me to wait until he got back to deal with her.
The next day, she rang me. Probably realised her key didn’t work anymore and wanted in. Asked if I was home, saying she fancied popping round for tea. I lied and said I was out but we’d arrange it another time. Half an hour later, my husband rang—she’d already complained to him that I was “gallivanting about” while the flat sat empty.
At this point, we found it darkly amusing. We joked about what excuse she’d conjure next to snoop around. Sure enough, she called daily—sometimes claiming a parcel had been delivered to our address by mistake, other times insisting she’d left her glasses behind, or just dropping by with scones.
When my husband returned, she announced she was coming over “for a visit.” We braced ourselves. She arrived, handed us a bag of scones, then excused herself to wash her hands—but headed straight for the bedroom instead. We followed, of course, and caught her rifling through the wardrobe. Flustered, she stammered something incoherent. My husband silently pulled the camera from his pocket and showed it to her.
Then the theatrics began. She shrieked about my supposed “endless affairs,” insisting I was deceiving her poor, naive son. She even clutched her chest dramatically, weeping like a martyr. Finally, she stormed out, slamming the door with wounded dignity.
Honestly, I almost applauded. A performance like that, completely unrehearsed. But this was just one battle. I know the war isn’t over. Still, I’m glad we stood our ground this time—made it clear our family isn’t her stage for absurdity. .
