Tuesday, 14th March
My mother-in-law thought she could set the rules in MY house. I reminded her exactly who the mistress of this home is.
It happened that I had to let her move into my flat—not because I wanted to, but because my wonderful husband begged me. His mother had fallen on hard times, and though I agreed through gritted teeth to keep the peace, she seemed to forget that generosity quickly.
She started ordering things about as if this were her own place, despite my clear warning that this was MY home, and I wouldn’t tolerate interference. We’ve never got on—she resented that I wouldn’t dance to her tune, and I loathed her pushy ways and endless lectures.
Straightaway, she began whinging to my husband. But he’s a sensible man—paid no mind to her tales. What truly rankled her was that the flat belonged to me, not her son. She couldn’t stand not having the upper hand for once.
She has a younger daughter, Emily—four years my junior—who married last year while already pregnant. The newlyweds moved in with her in-laws but didn’t last long. Six months after the baby came, Emily bolted back to her mother, who wailed:
“They’ve tormented my girl! That mother-in-law of hers is a right dragon—snapping, belittling her at every turn! Who treats a daughter-in-law so?”
I nearly laughed. This “terrible” mother-in-law was her own mirror image—poetic justice, I’d say.
Emily didn’t divorce. Her husband still sent money, and within a month, he moved back in—now crammed into her mother’s tiny one-bed flat. Mother-in-law slept on the kitchen sofa, clashed constantly with the son-in-law, and—here’s the funny bit—Emily took his side, scolding:
“Mum, stop sabotaging my marriage!”
I told my mother-in-law plainly: “Why not ask them to rent somewhere?”
“On what? Emily’s on maternity, and he earns peanuts. What can they afford?”
“That’s their problem. Not ours.”
But soon, she was round ours daily—first moaning about fate, then her aching back from the sofa, then the rows with her son-in-law. Finally, the plea: “I can’t live with them anymore! Just let me stay with you—briefly!”
I wanted to refuse. But my husband argued, “Just two months. Emily’s looking for a place.”
I relented—but laid down rules. She nodded sweetly: “Of course, love, I understand.” For two weeks, she was quiet as a church mouse. Then it began.
She rearranged everything—her doilies on every surface, moving pictures, suggesting new curtains. I bit my tongue at first, then complained to my husband. His talks changed nothing. Months passed; “briefly” became half a year. Emily, as I’d guessed, wasn’t moving out.
Mother-in-law needled me constantly: “You waste water!” “You can’t cook properly!” “Your cleaning’s slapdash!” Once, she binned all my cleaning supplies for foul-smelling grey soap, declaring, “Chemicals are poison! We’ll do things the old way!”
Worse, she kept throwing out food—even freshly made dishes—claiming, “Bad energy” or “Not fit for my son.” I snapped. No more running to my husband—this time, I said it all:
“You live in MY flat. I allowed you to stay—temporarily. That time’s up. Pack your bags and go back to Emily. I don’t need a second mother. I’m grown, and I won’t be lectured on how to live in MY home!”
She sulked. When my husband returned, she wailed about me. He just shrugged: “Sort it yourselves. I’m not getting involved.”
Then she went all in—playing the “older and wiser” card, insisting I “owe her gratitude.” That’s when I ended it:
“Gratitude? For turning my home upside down? I never asked for your advice, and I won’t let you turn my flat into a madhouse annexe!”
I gave her a month to leave. Let them sort their own mess. Why should I suffer their chaos? She failed with her daughter—she won’t wreck my life too.
Not in my house. My rules.
Lesson learned: kindness has limits. Set them early, or pay the price.
