My mum wants to visit while my mother-in-law’s away, but she forbids letting ‘outsiders’ into her home.
I’m Kieran, 25, and this whole situation is tearing me apart. My wife, Emily, and I live in her mother’s house—Margaret Thompson’s place—in a small town near Manchester. It’s not temporary; we’re stuck here until at least after Emily’s maternity leave ends. Three months ago, she gave birth to our daughter, Sophie, and now our world revolves around her. But instead of feeling like home, this place feels like a prison where Margaret calls the shots, and even my own mum can’t come round for a visit.
Margaret’s house is a decent three-bedroom with a good layout, a balcony, and a big kitchen—plenty of space for four. Emily’s name is on the deeds, so we’ve got every right to be here, but we stick to one room to keep the peace. Sophie sleeps with us, which works fine, but living here has become a daily battle. Margaret’s never been one for cleaning, so the mess falls on Emily. She spent weeks scrubbing years of grime before the baby came, and now she’s stuck washing, ironing, and mopping every day—because with a newborn, you can’t let things slide. Cooking’s on her too, since Margaret won’t lift a finger in the kitchen. Thank God Sophie’s a quiet baby—she’ll nap or lie in her cot while Emily runs herself ragged.
Meanwhile, Margaret does nothing. She used to at least rinse a plate now and then, but now? Leaves everything on the table and walks off. Emily bites her tongue to avoid a row, but it eats her up inside. How hard is it to wash a bowl after soup? It’s a small thing, but it’s the final straw. She cleans, cooks, keeps the place running—while Margaret’s glued to the telly or gossiping on the phone. Emily swallows her anger, but every day drains her.
Then, last week, Margaret announced she’s off to see family in Yorkshire this autumn—her niece’s wedding. The second she left the room, Emily rang her mum, Linda. She lives clear up in Newcastle and hasn’t met Sophie yet. When she said she’d visit, Emily was over the moon—finally, a proper family moment. But that night, when she mentioned it, Margaret’s face turned to stone. “I won’t have strangers in my house while I’m gone!” she snapped. *Strangers?* She meant my wife’s own mother, Sophie’s grandma! Emily was gutted. How could she call Linda an outsider? They’d met at our wedding—three years back, when we were renting—and it’s not like they’d fallen out.
Margaret dug her heels in. Accused us of plotting, like we’d timed it to ‘take over’ her house. She’d already booked her train tickets but now swore we’d planned it. “Two years your mum stays away, and suddenly she turns up? Pull the other one!” she shouted. Emily tried explaining—Linda just wanted to hold her granddaughter—but Margaret wouldn’t budge. She even threatened to cancel her trip to ‘guard’ the place. As if it’s Buckingham Palace, not some tired old semi with peeling wallpaper.
Emily broke down telling Linda, who was crushed but said she’d wait till summer to avoid drama. And true to her word, Margaret cancelled her tickets. Now she paces the house like a prison warden, watching Emily like she’s about to nick the silver. It’s humiliating. My mum—who’s desperate to cuddle Sophie—can’t even visit because of Margaret’s paranoia. Meanwhile, Emily’s on the deeds, pays her share, but can’t invite her own blood into the house.
It’s breaking her heart. She cooks, cleans, keeps this place spotless—and what does she get? Suspicion and locked doors. I stay out of it, but even I can see how wrong this is. Who’s in the right here? Margaret, guarding her territory like a bulldog? Or Emily, just wanting her mum to meet our daughter? Linda’s family, not some random. But to Margaret, Emily’s a threat, and every kindness has an angle. She’s sick of living under scrutiny, sick of feeling like a guest in her own home. This isn’t just a row—it’s a knife to the chest. And God knows how we fix it without tearing everything apart.
