My mother-in-law wishes to visit again, but I’ve made up my mind—this time, the answer is no, and I won’t be swayed.
Not long ago, my husband began pestering me once more with the same plea—his mother, he claimed, missed us terribly and was eager to come stay. That’s when something in me snapped. I refused outright. A single visit in all six years of our marriage had been more than enough to swear me off the idea forever. Back then, she’d arrived unannounced, not alone, but with her sister in tow—like a storm out of a clear sky. I’d bitten my tongue then. This time, I wouldn’t.
“See your mother if you like—take our daughter and visit her in Kent. Or book her a hotel, and I’ll not say a word. But she will not step foot in this house again.”
Yet, as it turned out, she’d hear none of it—no hotel, certainly no invitation to her own home. No, she insisted on staying in our flat. I couldn’t fathom why she was so determined to force her way into a place where she wasn’t wanted.
My husband hails from Yorkshire. We met as students in London. Before we married, he shared a rented flat with mates; afterward, he moved in with me. This flat was bought by my parents a decade ago, and it’s in my name. It’s my home, my responsibility.
His mother is far from poor. She could’ve easily helped him buy his own place, yet instead, she’d often say, “What if they divorce, and this cunning wife takes everything? Best he lives with her—safer that way.” Yet his sister, Emma, received all the help. Following her mother’s advice, Emma even pretended to divorce her husband to secure financial aid for a mortgage. Now she lives in Edinburgh, on maternity leave, while her “ex” pays the mortgage and child support. Everyone’s content.
Once, my mother-in-law even suggested we do the same—pretend to separate. My reply was sharp:
“If we divorce, it’ll be real. And immediate. Pack your things and live as you please, alone.”
That settled it. I’ve never visited her home—never had the desire. But three years ago, she came anyway.
“I want to see my granddaughter just once,” she said. “Photos don’t tell me who she takes after.”
I agreed. But no one warned me she’d bring her sister again. They must have planned a thorough inspection of the child’s features. Their scheme failed—our daughter is her father’s double. Even they had to admit it.
I prepared the guest room, they settled in, played with their granddaughter, accepted gifts. Then we sat for supper. I’d gone all out—roast chicken, homemade pies, three salads, cold cuts, cheeses, cake, fruit… Yet before we’d even started, the complaints began.
“Where’s the black pudding?” she demanded.
“Are you still hungry?” I asked, baffled.
“No, just asking…”
After supper, it continued:
“My son knows full well what I like. Have you not been told?”
I remembered then—her family had a peculiar obsession with offal: liver, kidneys, pies stuffed with innards. Yet the very smell of raw liver turned my stomach. I couldn’t bring myself to cook it.
The next day, they went out, and I tried to appease her—baked pastry pockets with ham, cheese, and leeks.
“Where’s the liver?” she griped. “You knew I preferred it!”
I explained, again, that I couldn’t stand the smell. She rolled her eyes. At lunch, she scoffed at the stew:
“Not a scrap of offal? Just plain beef?”
That was the last straw. I took our daughter and left for my mother’s. My husband and I quarrelled like never before.
A week later, during a video call, I heard her mutter,
“Emma’s a gem—always welcomes me, cooks just as I like. But this one… no warmth, no hospitality.”
After that, I told my husband, “She won’t set foot here again. If she crosses that threshold, you’ll both be out.” Now, three years later, she’s pushing to return. But this time—never. My home is my castle. And those who don’t respect its walls will stay outside.
