Mum wants to visit while my mother-in-law’s away, but she forbids letting “outsiders” into her home.
I’m a 25-year-old woman named Emily, caught in a situation that’s tearing me apart. My husband, James, and I live in his mother’s flat—Margaret Thompson’s—in a quiet town just outside of Manchester. This isn’t a temporary arrangement; we’re here for the long haul, at least until I finish maternity leave. Three months ago, I gave birth to our daughter, Lily, and now our world revolves around her. But instead of warmth and comfort, I feel like a prisoner in someone else’s home, where my mother-in-law dictates the rules and my own mum isn’t even allowed to visit.
Margaret’s flat is spacious—a three-bedroom with a decent layout, a balcony, and a large kitchen. Plenty of room for four people. James has a share in the property, yet we keep to one bedroom to avoid causing trouble. I breastfeed Lily, we co-sleep, and so far, it’s worked. But life here has become an endless battle. Margaret doesn’t care much for cleanliness, so the entire burden of housework falls on me. Before the baby, I scrubbed away years of dust, and now I maintain the flat meticulously because with a newborn, there’s no other choice. Daily mopping, laundry, ironing—all mine. I cook alone, too, since Margaret won’t even step foot in the kitchen. Thank goodness Lily is a calm baby, content to sleep or lie in her cot while I rush around.
Margaret does nothing. She used to wash dishes, but now she won’t even do that. Leaves her plates on the table and walks away. I bite my tongue to keep the peace, but inside, I’m seething. Is it really so hard to rinse a bowl after soup? A small thing, but it breaks me. I clean, I cook, I keep everything in order—while she watches telly or gossips on the phone. I swallow my frustration, playing the dutiful daughter-in-law, but each day drains me a little more.
Then, last week, Margaret announced she’d be visiting family in Yorkshire this autumn. Her niece is getting married, and she wants to catch up with her sisters and cousins. I was overjoyed—finally, James, Lily, and I would be alone, like a proper family! That same day, my mum, Catherine Wilson, rang. She lives miles away, in Bristol, and hasn’t met Lily yet. She said she missed us and wanted to visit. I was ecstatic—my mum could finally hold her granddaughter, and I’d feel, even briefly, like I was home. It felt like a double blessing, and I couldn’t wait to tell James.
But my happiness shattered. When I mentioned Mum’s visit, Margaret’s face darkened. “I won’t have strangers in my house while I’m gone!” she snapped. Strangers? She meant my mother—Lily’s grandmother! I was stunned. How could she call my mum a stranger? Yes, they’re not close, but they met at our wedding. Back then, we lived in a rented flat, and Mum stayed with us because Margaret had distant relatives visiting. That was three years ago, but does that make my mum some sort of trespasser?
Margaret dug her heels in. She accused me of scheming with my mum, as if we’d been waiting for her to leave so we could “take over” her flat. She’d already bought train tickets but now swore our timing was suspicious. “Two years without a peep from your mother, and suddenly she wants to visit? I don’t buy it!” she shouted. I tried explaining that Mum just wanted to meet Lily, but Margaret refused to budge. She even threatened to cancel her trip, saying she’d stay to “guard” the flat—as if it were some royal estate, not a modest three-bed with worn-out carpets!
I broke down and told Mum everything. She was hurt but said she’d postpone her visit until summer to avoid conflict. And Margaret? She actually cancelled her tickets. Now she patrols the flat like a prison warden, watching my every move as if I’m some thief plotting to steal her belongings. I feel humiliated. My mum—who desperately wants to hold Lily—can’t come because of Margaret’s paranoia. Meanwhile, I live here legally, my name’s on the lease, yet I can’t even invite my own mother.
It’s crushing me. I pour myself into this home—cleaning, cooking, making it livable—only to be met with suspicion and rules. James stays out of it, but I see the discomfort in his eyes. Who’s right here? Margaret, guarding her flat like a fortress? Or me, just wanting my mum to meet her granddaughter? My mother isn’t an outsider—she’s family. But Margaret sees me as a threat, my wishes as some sort of trick. I’m exhausted, living under her control, feeling like a guest in the place I now call home. This isn’t just a disagreement—it’s a knife to the heart. And I don’t know how to fix it without tearing us all apart.
