The morning began with the unsettling sensation of the blanket slowly slipping off me. My eyes were still closed tight, yet I already knew I’d been left utterly uncovered. A shiver raced over my skin, followed by a familiar stifled giggle. I cracked one eye open just in time to catch my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, tiptoeing out of our bedroom, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Mum, what are you doing?!” I called, but she’d already vanished behind the door, leaving only the echo of her amusement hanging in the air. My husband, Edward, mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and yanked the blanket back over himself, completely oblivious. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, wondering how to react to yet another one of Margaret’s “playful” antics.
Edward and I have been married just a year, and we’re still living with his parents—temporarily, until we save enough for our own place. But honestly, I’m starting to doubt how much longer I can stand it. Margaret is kind, full of energy, and, as she puts it, “has a sense of humour.” Trouble is, her idea of humour often leaves me mortified. The blanket incident was just one in a long line of moments that made me blush and wish I could disappear.
It started before we even tied the knot. When Edward first introduced me to his parents, Margaret hugged me tight, called me “love,” and declared me part of the family. I was touched—until I realised she had no concept of personal space. She’d barge into our room without knocking, “just for a little chat,” or rearrange my things because “it looks nicer that way.” Once, I caught her rummaging through my wardrobe, critiquing which dresses suited me and which didn’t. I tried to brush it off—she’s older, she has her ways, and it is her house, after all. But the blanket stunt was the last straw.
I flung on my dressing gown and marched to the kitchen, where Margaret was already cheerfully whisking eggs, humming a tuneless melody. “Morning, love!” she trilled. “Finally awake, are we? You two were sleeping like logs!” She winked, and I knew she was referencing her little prank. I forced a smile. “Good morning, Margaret. Though, honestly, I’d prefer waking up without… surprises.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud! Got to keep you young ones on your toes!”
I slumped into a chair, gripping my tea like a lifeline. Deep down, I knew she meant no harm. To her, these stunts were just affection, her way of staying close. But I grew up in a home where privacy was sacred. My mum, Eleanor Hartley, always knocked before entering my room and taught me to respect boundaries. Here, I felt like my bedroom was a train station—and worse, Edward didn’t even seem to notice. When I told him, he just laughed. “Mum’s bored, that’s all. Don’t take it to heart.” But it wasn’t funny. I wanted our home—even if temporary—to feel safe.
After breakfast, once Edward had left for work, I steeled myself and asked Margaret for a chat over coffee. To my surprise, she agreed eagerly, settling into the sofa with her cup. I started carefully, thanking her for her kindness, then took a breath. “Margaret, I… I really appreciate how welcoming you’ve been. But sometimes, like with the blanket this morning… it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable.” My voice wavered, but I kept going. “I’m just not used to surprises like that.”
Instead of offence, her face softened. “Oh, love, I never meant to upset you! In our family, we’ve always been a bit cheeky with each other. But if it bothers you, I’ll try to rein it in.” She patted my hand, and the tension in my chest uncoiled. Maybe she hadn’t realised how it weighed on me. We talked a while longer, and I even shared stories about my own family, hoping she’d understand.
I doubt Margaret will change overnight—she’s too set in her ways. But perhaps we’ll find a middle ground. And I’ll talk to Edward, too—he should have my back in this. After all, we’re a family now, and comfort matters. Maybe someday, when we finally have our own place, these “morning surprises” will just be a strange memory. Until then, I’ll try to laugh it off—though, admittedly, stolen blankets still aren’t all that funny to me.
