“Mum, we’re… busy!” shouted the man when his mother-in-law walked in without knocking! The next day, she got quite the surprise.
Honestly, who hasn’t been there? Right after the wedding, my husband—bless his heart—solemnly handed his mum, Margaret, a set of keys to our flat. With mock seriousness, he said, “Mum, just for emergencies, you know, in case something happens.” Oh, of course! Those “emergencies” turned out to happen three times a week.
Picture this: you’re at home, relaxed, in your old dressing gown, face mask on, and suddenly—screech! The sound of a key in the lock. My heart leapt into my throat every time!
In barges Margaret, full of energy, ready to inspect. “Oh dear, is that dust on the sideboard?” “Emily, did you over-salt the soup?” “Why aren’t the curtains ironed?” Not a mother-in-law—more like a health and safety inspector on a surprise visit!
At first, I bit my tongue. What could I say? I nudged my husband, “Love, isn’t this a bit… inconvenient?” But he just waved me off. “Oh, come on, it’s Mum! She means well.” Those “good intentions,” girls, were the death of me.
It was a Friday. My husband came home exhausted, so I decided to surprise him—you know, to spice things up. I made his favourite lasagne, bought a nice bottle of wine.
I dressed up like it was our first date: slipped into lace lingerie that had been gathering dust in the wardrobe, lit candles, set the mood, as they say.
We’re there, half-lit, sipping wine, my husband’s relaxed, arms around me, whispering sweet nothings… And then, my dears, right at the most *delicate* moment—click! The sound of a key in the lock.
I nearly died of embarrassment! The bedroom door swings open, and there’s Margaret, holding a bag of potatoes. “Oh, darlings, I’ve brought you some potatoes from the allotment! Why are you sitting in the—Oh!” She froze, staring at me in my… let’s say, *unusual* attire.
My husband, red as a lobster, jumped up and yelled:
“Mum, we’re… busy!”
Without missing a beat, she replied:
“So what if you’re busy? I’m family! Where should I put the potatoes?”
Can you believe it? The evening was ruined. I bolted to the bedroom, threw on the first dressing gown I found, and stayed there the rest of the night. When Margaret finally left, my husband and I had a serious talk. Well, *I* talked—he just listened. I poured out years of frustration—the dust, the soup, and, of course, tonight’s disaster.
“Do you realise how abnormal this is?!” I shouted. “This is *our* home, *our* private space!”
But him? What can you expect? He just blinked and muttered his favourite line:
“Em, don’t overreact. It’s Mum! She didn’t mean anything by it… She just didn’t think.”
And then, girls, it hit me. Words wouldn’t fix this. Ever. If my husband couldn’t protect our family’s boundaries, *I* would. And just like that, a plan formed in my head.
The next morning, Saturday, I woke up knowing exactly what to do. While my husband still slept, I found a locksmith online and called him. At exactly 10 a.m., a polite young man arrived and swapped the lock cylinder in 15 minutes. Done—just like that!
That evening, over dinner, I placed a single new key in front of my husband. He stared at it, confused.
“What’s this?”
“That, love, is your *new* key to our home,” I said sweetly.
“Where’s the other one? For Mum?”
“There isn’t one,” I smiled my most pleasant smile. “I only had one set made. For *our* family.”
You should’ve seen his face. He looked at me like I’d just announced I was moving to Mars. Started mumbling about “taking matters into my own hands,” but I cut him off:
“Now we wait. The show’s about to begin.”
And sure enough—right at 8 p.m., the familiar screech in the hallway. Once… twice… then silence. A few seconds later—an insistent, confident ring of the doorbell.
I glanced at my husband and said calmly:
“Go answer it. Mum’s here.”
Apparently, Margaret was *stunned*. She stood on the doorstep with a bag of scones, baffled as to why her key didn’t work. My husband stammered some explanation, squirming… Meanwhile, I stood there and, for the first time in years, felt like the true mistress of my own home.
Tell me honestly, girls—did I go too far? Or is a lock sometimes the only way to teach someone about personal boundaries?
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