Oh, I just have to vent about my mother-in-law. She’s always forcing her ways on us, and my husband? He just stays quiet. I can’t take it anymore.
Sometimes I step back and think—how did I even end up married to a man who, at thirty, still lives in his mum’s shadow? His name’s Edward, and sure, on the surface, he looks all grown-up and independent. But really? Total mummy’s boy. Can’t make a move without her blessing.
And guess how we met? Through *her*. I was working as a shop assistant when this older woman kept coming in. She’d always compliment me, saying I felt like family. Then she dragged her son along: “Eddie, look at this lovely girl—she’s an absolute gem!” And he fell for it. Started taking me out, wining and dining me. Next thing I knew—wedding bells.
His mum gave us the flat. She moved in with her older boyfriend and said, “You two live here, save up for your own place. I want grandchildren!” Sounds kind, right? But turns out, it wasn’t selfless. Before long, she was back in our lives… with her cleaning supplies, pots, and *her* way of doing things.
Every *Monday morning*—it’s like groundhog day. I spend my weekends scrubbing the place spotless, doing laundry, cooking. And then? I come home to everything *rewashed*, *re-ironed*, *rearranged*. A little note on the table: *Made some shepherd’s pie, tidied your wardrobe, mopped the floors, changed the sheets. Love you.* Polite? Sure. But it makes my hands shake. Is this *my* home or hers?
I told Edward I couldn’t take it anymore. He just brushed me off—“She’s only trying to help! She does it from the heart!” Like I should be *grateful* for less housework. But her “help” just makes me feel like I’ve got no right to be the woman of my own house. She even washes my *underwear*! Rifles through my drawers, rearranges my things. There’s no privacy left.
And the worst part? She doesn’t do this at *her* place. We visited once—clean, sure, but not *sterile*. At ours? Every inch measured out like it’s a military inspection. A stranger in my home, and I can’t even say a word. Because, as my mum reminded me, “The flat’s *hers*. Just bear with it till you buy your own.”
But how am I supposed to bear it when every day, I feel like I’m being *pushed out* of my own role? I’m not saying she’s a bad person. She’s not. But she’s got this *need* to control everything. To her, we’re not a proper family—just her little boy and his wife, needing her to tell us how to live.
And Edward? He *refuses* to set boundaries. He’s fine with it. Says we’ve got “a sweet deal.” Meanwhile, I feel like a guest in my own home. He doesn’t even *see* how much it’s killing me. Or he just won’t.
And when she drops the “I want grandchildren. Once they’re here, I’ll visit more, babysit, *help*”—I panic. Because I *know* what that means. She won’t “help.” She’ll *move in*. Set the kids’ schedule, *her* meals, *her* rules. I’m already suffocating. If that happens? I’ll snap.
I gave Edward an ultimatum—either *he* talks to his mum, or I will. And I don’t care whose flat it is. She *gave* it to us to live in, so she needs to respect that. I’m not some knick-knack she can shuffle around. I’m his *wife*, the lady of this house, and I *deserve* to have things done *my* way. Even if the house isn’t *technically* mine yet.
