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 convinced my husband she needed help. She claimed she was frightened and lonely, so he rushed to bring her into our two-bedroom flat.
Margaret Whitmore is a difficult woman. She always insists on being the centre of attention, no matter the cost. While her husband was alive, she left us alone. I was grateful—despite years of marriage, I’d never managed to get along with her.
“Oh, darling, you should always make yourself presentable before your husband comes home. Even at my age, I’d never let myself go like this. And the roast could do with more seasoning—shame your mother never taught you how to cook properly.”
Comments like that were her speciality. According to her, everything she did was perfect, while I couldn’t do anything right. Before, when we only saw each other on holidays, I bit my tongue. But enduring her jabs every single day has become unbearable.
Her husband passed last year. We knew it was coming—he’d battled cancer for years. After his death, Margaret was a shadow of herself. She barely ate or drank, just wandered the house in a daze. For the first month, we didn’t dare leave her alone.
Then, as time passed, she snapped back to her old self—sharp-tongued and critical. In a way, it was a relief—it meant she’d recovered. But I celebrated too soon. Soon enough, she started wearing my husband down, insisting she couldn’t bear living alone.
“I feel so lonely and unwanted. The house terrifies me, and my heart’s been acting up. Maybe I should move in with you?” she’d weep.
My husband wasn’t thrilled, but he caved. The constant calls and sob stories wore him down. I, however, refused to budge. Living with Margaret was out of the question. She even suggested we move into *her* house—bigger, she said. True, but that would mean I’d never feel at home. Besides, our flat’s in the city centre—easy commute to work and the kids’ nursery.
I knew better than to fall for her tricks. On her own turf, she’d devour me whole. My husband tried to understand, but blood is thicker than water. He promised her stay would be temporary—that he’d keep her in check and shield me from her jabs.
Six months later, and our marriage is crumbling. I’m irritable, exhausted—running after her like a maid. Fetch her tea, take her for walks, put on her programmes… all while enduring lectures on how no one cares for her. And if I slip up? Suddenly, she’s clutching her chest, demanding an ambulance.
We planned a seaside holiday, but she threw a fit. “You’d just abandon me?” she wailed, insisting she had to come. A holiday with her? No, thank you. My husband just shrugs, and I realise—I’ve reached my limit. If he chooses her, then I choose freedom.
**Sometimes, setting boundaries isn’t selfish—it’s survival.**
