If I had known how this decision would turn out, I’d never have agreed. But five years ago, when my husband Benjamin and I were flat-hunting, he insisted: “Let’s buy here, near Mum. She’ll always be close—she can help, keep an eye on things. She’s an absolute gem.” So we bought. She’s on the sixth floor; we’re on the third. Foolishly, I thought proximity would be a blessing. Instead, it’s been a curse.
At first, it was quiet. My mother-in-law would pop round occasionally—to babysit, bring scones. I didn’t mind. In fact, I was polite, grateful, even friendly. But soon, things spiralled. Especially when we started weekend trips to the countryside. We gave her a key—”to water the plants.” Now I realise that was my biggest mistake.
The moment we step out, she’s in. Not just watering, but conducting a full-blown inspection. She barges into our private life without hesitation. I come home and barely recognise the place. Bed linen is stuffed in a drawer with socks. Half our belongings are piled on the floor with a note: “Bin.” The rest? Already in the wash. As if my flat ever had dirty things lying about!
The kitchen’s no better. Everything’s rearranged. Cups where pots should be. Sugar where the salt went. I spend a week searching, muttering to myself. Worst of all? My son’s toys. She deems it necessary to “tidy” them—dumping them out, tossing half. “Old, dusty, unplayable.” Never mind that he cuddled that stuffed rabbit every night. Her decision is final.
The plants she’s meant to “care for” are drowning. The tropical ones? Half-dead, stripped bare. “Removing diseased leaves,” she claims. Funny how every leaf ended up in the bin.
Then there’s my makeup. She doesn’t just touch it—she uses it! Perfume, creams, nail varnish, even my nail file vanished into her handbag. As if it’s communal. “Why fuss? It’s all in the family.” I’ve started buying doubles, or I’d have nothing left.
I’ve tried talking to her. Pleading: “Please don’t move things. Just water the plants.” But it’s either silence or, “I’m only trying to help.” Every time. Like I’m the guest in my own home.
I’ve begged Benjamin. Cried, explained. But he takes her side. “Mum’s got a weak heart. She can’t handle stress. Just bear with her—she means well.” No one considers my patience. He thinks I’m nitpicking. That his mother just wants to help.
I’m at my wit’s end. I’m simmering inside. I don’t shout—my upbringing won’t allow it. I refuse to stoop to rudeness. But keeping it bottled up? I can’t anymore. I’m terrified I’ll snap. And then the fallout—for the family, for us—will be irreversible.
I’m exhausted. Shaking with it. This isn’t a “gem” of a mother-in-law. She’s controlling, intrusive, brazen. I can’t say, “Get out”—because Benjamin wouldn’t understand. Because she’s nearby. Because “it’s easier.”
But it’s not easier for me. I dread coming home. Never knowing what I’ll find—or lose.
What do I do? Keep swallowing it? Or, despite Benjamin’s protests, finally say, “Enough!” and reclaim my own space?…
