**Diary Entry: A Visit to Mother-in-Law’s**
This past holiday will stay with me for a while—not because it was particularly joyful or eventful, but because the first part, our trip to my mother-in-law’s, turned into an endurance test. She lives in Sheffield, while we’re just outside London, and since our wedding, we’d only met once—when I was discharged from the hospital after giving birth. My husband visited her a couple of times a year, but only for her birthday, never staying the night. Now I understand why.
Her two-bedroom flat barely fit the three of them: her, my husband’s stepfather, and his grown-up daughter from a previous marriage. Before, she’d always claimed she’d love to host us but had no space. Yet in every phone call, she’d sigh over how much she missed our daughter, Emily, lamenting that we weren’t nearby. My husband once suggested staying in a hotel—she was outraged, calling it an “insult” and declaring she’d never allow us to sleep in “some unknown place.”
A few years later, the stepdaughter moved to London, freeing up a room, and suddenly my mother-in-law was insistent we visit. “Now you must come—I long to see little Emily!” she’d say. After months of coordinating leave, we finally made the trip, expecting warmth. And, to be fair, the welcome *was* heartfelt. She rushed to Emily, showered her with questions, hugged her, fussed over dinner… but the happiness lasted exactly two hours. Then, as if a switch flipped, she changed.
At lunch came the nitpicking: spoons clinked too loudly, Emily asked for seconds too eagerly, her knee brushed against the upholstery. At first, I wondered if she felt unwell—maybe a headache or high blood pressure. But no, she was perfectly fine. She had simply shifted into full control mode.
By evening, I’d endured lectures: we wasted water like millionaires, left lights on needlessly, showered too long, opened the fridge “endlessly,” and—apparently—walking heavily was strictly forbidden. I’d never realised we were such inconvenient, disruptive guests. Everything we did irritated her.
The next day, I whispered to my husband that we should escape—just for a walk, maybe the park, some fresh air. We slipped out quietly, bought a few groceries, stopped at a café. When we returned, she lamented how much she’d *missed* Emily, how she’d wanted to take her out… yet her first command was to wipe our shoes, despite the drought outside. My husband obliged, but when he frowned slightly, she snapped, “A home should have *standards*!”
Lunch passed in tomb-like silence. Even Emily sat subdued, as if sensing any word might unleash another torrent of “advice.” Hoping to lighten the mood, I suggested she take Emily out that evening while we saw a film. Her retort was sharp: “So now I must rearrange *my* life for you? Do you think I’ve nothing better to do?”
I nearly choked. A glance at my husband confirmed he’d had enough. After dinner, we agreed to leave early. “Seems we’re in her way,” he muttered. We changed our tickets, stayed two more days out of politeness. When she learned we were leaving, she wailed, “I’ve barely spent time with Emily!” I didn’t bother pointing out *she* had made no effort.
The final act came on departure day. She wandered the flat like a tragic heroine, sighing as if we’d wrecked the place. The real issue? She’d have to wash the sheets we’d used. I offered to pay for laundry or buy new ones. She pursed her lips. “I’ll manage, *thank you*.”
Our goodbye was stiff, formal. No tears, no warmth. But as our train pulled away, she called, voice cracking: “I miss you all so much… When will you visit again?”
I took a deep breath and said nothing. Because if we do return, it won’t be soon. Maybe never.
