Oh man, I’ll never forget that last holiday—not because it was relaxing or fun, but because the first half, visiting my mother-in-law, was an absolute test of patience. She lives in Bristol, while we’re just outside London, and since the wedding, we’d only met once—when I was discharged from the hospital after having our little one. My husband would pop over for her birthday once or twice a year, but never stayed the night. And now I totally get why.
Her two-bed flat was barely big enough for her, my husband’s stepdad, and his grown-up daughter from his first marriage. So for years, she’d say she’d love to have us but there just wasn’t space. Yet every phone call, she’d go on about how much she missed our daughter, Emily, and how she wished we lived closer. Once, my husband suggested staying in a hotel—she was *furious*, called it “humiliating” and swore she’d never let us stay “God knows where.”
Then a couple years ago, the step-sister moved to London, freeing up a room, and suddenly my mother-in-law was *begging* us to visit. “Now you *have* to come, I need to see little Emily! I’ve missed her so much!” We juggled our schedules, finally picked a date, and off we went, expecting a warm welcome. And to her credit, at first, it *was* lovely. She fussed over Emily, hugged her, asked a million questions, buzzed around the kitchen… but that lasted exactly two hours. Then, like someone flipped a switch, she turned into a different person.
Dinner was a parade of nitpicks: spoons clinking too loud, Emily asking for seconds too eagerly, her knee nudging the couch fabric. I thought maybe she wasn’t feeling well—headache or something—but nope. She was fine. She’d just decided we were now under full surveillance.
By evening, I’d been lectured on everything: we used water like we owned a reservoir, left lights on like energy was free, showered too long, opened the fridge “non-stop,” and—apparently—walking around the flat was strictly forbidden. Who knew we were such disastrous houseguests? Everything we did seemed to grind her gears.
The next morning, I nudged my husband: “Let’s escape.” We slipped out quietly, wandered to a park, grabbed lunch at a café. When we got back, she sighed dramatically: *She’d missed Emily so much, why didn’t we take her with us?* But first, she snapped at us to *wipe our shoes*—despite it being bone-dry outside. My husband, trying to keep peace, obeyed, but when he frowned slightly, she snapped: “A house *must* have rules!”
Lunch was tomb-silent. Even little Emily sat still, like she sensed one wrong move would set off another round of “helpful” critiques. I tried lightening the mood—suggested she take Emily to the playground that evening while we caught a film. Her reply? “*Oh, so now I have to work around your plans? You think I’ve nothing better to do?*”
I nearly choked. Just shot my husband a look—he already knew. That night, we agreed to leave early. He just muttered, “Think we’re more hassle than we’re worth.” We changed our tickets, stayed two extra days out of politeness. When she heard we were leaving, she wailed, “But I’ve barely seen Emily!” I didn’t bother pointing out *she* never made the effort.
The kicker? On our last morning, she stomped around like we’d trashed the place. Turned out? She was *dreading* washing our bedsheets. I offered to pay for laundry service or buy new ones. She rolled her eyes: “*I’ll manage, thanks.*”
Goodbyes were stiff, no hugs, no tears. Then, as our train pulled out, she called—*sobbing*—”I miss you all *so much*. When are you coming back?”
I took a deep breath and said nothing. Because if we *do* go back? It won’t be soon. Maybe never.
