When William and I first met, we were both in our thirties. At that age, no one dawdles—so neither did we. We crossed paths, took a liking to each other, dated for a few months, and then filed for marriage at the registry office. We were both desperate to start a family. I’d longed for a child for years, and William—never married before—was just as eager to become a father. We tied the knot quickly, without fuss, and moved into my grandmother’s flat, which I’d inherited. After renovating and furnishing it, we settled into our cozy little nest.
His mother, Margaret, I’d only met twice before the wedding—once over tea, and again at the ceremony. She seemed pleasant enough: quiet, polite, outwardly approving of our union, letting her son go without a fuss, never meddling. I even thought I’d hit the jackpot with my mother-in-law. How wrong I was.
We didn’t wait to have a child. I fell pregnant almost immediately, and those nine months were, you could say, pure luxury. William doted on me—in every way. At three in the morning, he’d peel satsumas for me. He’d make avocado toast at dawn, rub my belly, whisper fairy tales to our unborn son. And Margaret? She kept her distance. Only occasionally, she’d send little treats through William—jars of jam, apples.
At the time, I didn’t think much of it, though some jars were dusty, the jam crystallized, the apples oddly bruised. I chalked it up to an elderly woman’s failing eyesight—maybe the shop had swindled her. But then our Oliver was born, and everything unraveled.
Margaret suggested moving in temporarily—to help with the baby, she said, while renting out her own flat to ease our finances. William’s job had hit a rough patch, and we’d just taken out a loan for a car. It seemed reasonable. I agreed.
But Margaret didn’t just visit—she *moved* in. With a lorry’s worth of belongings. Except “belongings” wasn’t the word. It was *junk*: moth-eaten rags, chipped mugs, broken toys, unmarked boxes, stacks of yellowed newspapers. Every day, her “collection” grew. I even noticed wrappers in the bin from food we’d never bought.
Then, one day, I saw her hauling a filthy, grey supermarket bag inside. I peeked—and my blood ran cold. Inside were expired goods: mouldy bread, yoghurts a week past their date, bananas not just black but *slimy*. She was bringing this into our home. The home where my newborn lived.
All of it—to feed *us*. Me, post-partum, and my tiny Oliver! I exploded. I demanded William confront her. But he—he *defended* her. Said she’d grown up in hardship, that her own mother had scavenged scraps from neighbours, dug through bins just to survive.
“We’re not in wartime!” I screamed. “We have money! We’re not reduced to eating garbage! Do you realize this could *poison* our child?”
He stayed silent. Then, quietly: “Mum means well. She’s doing her best.”
Her *best*? I’d had enough. I packed our things, took Oliver, and left for my parents’ in York. It’s peaceful there. Clean. No one feeds us rubbish dredged from the bins.
I gave William an ultimatum: either he tells his mother to clear out—junk and all—or he can stay with her. But I won’t step back into that squalor, that hoarder’s den.
Now, tell me—did I overreact? Could I have handled it better? Stayed calm, explained, given her a chance? Or was I right to stand my ground, protecting my son—and myself?
