—I’m only trying to help! And you never appreciate it!—my mother-in-law exclaims, while my eye twitches involuntarily at her idea of “help.”
Sometimes, I catch myself dreaming of just… leaving. Anywhere—another city, the ends of the earth, even a village near Canterbury. Anywhere far from my husband’s mother. Otherwise, I might lose my mind. My nerves fray the moment I hear her chirpy voice: “I’ve brought something you’ll love!”
When Oliver and I first married, friends envied me—they said I’d won the mother-in-law lottery. No nagging, no meddling, not even an unsolicited pie. At first, it was true. She seemed supportive. But beneath it all, energy simmered, waiting to erupt. And when it did—it swept away everything we’d built.
First, she tried to force us into a lavish wedding—speeches, a banquet, forty guests. We dodged that bullet thanks to her youngest daughter’s graduation. My mother-in-law simply transferred her manic enthusiasm there. But she wasn’t done.
Back then, we rented a flat—bright, tidy, perfect. Yet she filled it with “essentials”—cracked plates, forks that scratched your tongue, and curtains… those *bloody* curtains still haunt my nightmares. Velvet, burgundy, moth-eaten.
“Just stitch the holes, good as new!” she beamed.
Meanwhile, I wondered—why not hang them in her own home if they’re so wonderful?
When we finally saved enough for our own place—with help from my parents and Oliver’s godparents—I naively hoped for a fresh start. Instead, she decided that since she hadn’t contributed financially, she’d “help” in other ways. Translation: bombard us with chaos.
First came the wallpaper. Decades old, faded, damp, smelling of mildew. Then she insisted Uncle Colin—a “handyman”—tile our bathroom. He botched it. The tiles peeled within days, the grout stained, and we paid proper workers to undo his “free help.”
Next, the fridge. She hauled it in herself. It roared like a jet engine, and the stench… something had *died* inside. Oliver and I trashed it immediately, but she wept—
“It just needed cleaning! It had years left! So ungrateful!”
Then came the cousin’s cast-off sofa. The seventies-era sideboard. The carpet reeking of dust and damp. We refused each one, and every time—tears, accusations, guilt.
Now I’m pregnant. We hid it as long as possible, but when the bump became undeniable, we told her. Big mistake. She’s now amassing “hand-me-downs”—a pram from some Emily, a cot from Sophie, clothes worn by four kids.
I don’t want it. I don’t want my child sleeping in a cot that’s held strangers. I don’t want a pram with dodgy brakes. I don’t want him dressed in threadbare leftovers. It’s not snobbery—it’s revulsion. And it stings that no one cares what I think.
She’s relentless. I stay silent—pregnancy isn’t the time for battles. Oliver fends her off, refusing, deflecting. But I see him wearing thin. Her energy is nuclear, endless.
Sometimes, I dream of selling up and vanishing. Just… dissolving into silence. I’m not cruel. I just want peace. Freedom. A life without moth-eaten velvet, ghostly fridges, and relics of the past.
I want to breathe. To live. To raise my child in a clean, calm nest—untouched by “kindness” that makes me want to scream.
