Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She has her own house and is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but she managed to convince my husband she needed help. Said she was afraid, lonely—so he rushed to bring her into our tiny two-bedroom flat.
Ethel Whitmore is a difficult woman. She must be the centre of attention, no matter the cost. While her husband was alive, she left us alone. I was grateful—after all our years of marriage, I never managed to get along with her.
“Oh, darling, you should make yourself presentable before your husband comes home. Even at my age, I wouldn’t dream of looking so plain. And the roast—really, you ought to take a cooking course, since your mother never taught you.”
Those were the sorts of remarks I endured. In her eyes, she did everything flawlessly, while my hands might as well have been made of clay. Before, when we only saw each other on holidays, I bit my tongue. Now, with her under our roof, it’s unbearable.
Her husband passed last year. We’d known it was coming—he’d been fighting cancer for years. After he died, Ethel was a ghost. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t sleep. The first month, we didn’t dare leave her alone.
But eventually, she snapped back to her old self. The snide comments returned, the nitpicking. A sign she’d recovered—or so I thought. Too soon. She started whispering to my husband, wailing about how hard it was to live alone.
“I’m so lonely. So afraid. The palpitations come at night—what if something happens? Wouldn’t it be better if we all lived together?”
My husband wasn’t thrilled, but he caved. The endless calls, the guilt—she wore him down. I held my ground as long as I could. Living with her was out of the question. She even suggested we move to her place—bigger, she said. No, thank you. There, I’d never be anything but a guest. Our flat’s in the heart of London—easy for work, for the park.
I knew better than to fall for her act. On her turf, she’d devour me whole. My husband claimed he understood. But blood is blood. He promised it was temporary, swore he’d keep her in line.
Six months later, our marriage is crumbling. I’m wound tight, fraying at the edges—running after her like a maid.
Tea, walks, turning on the telly, then listening to her whine that no one cares. And if I slip up? Suddenly, it’s chest pains. Dramas. Threats of an ambulance.
We planned a holiday by the seaside. Cue the waterworks—how could we abandon her? She had to come. That’s no holiday for me. My husband just shrugs. And I realise—I’m done. If he chooses her, let him. I’ll sign the papers myself.
