My mother-in-law decided she’d set the rules in *my* house. I reminded her who the real mistress was here.
It so happened that I had to let my mother-in-law move into my flat. Not because I’d ever dreamed of it. But because I have a wonderful husband, and he genuinely begged for help—his mother was in a tough spot. I agreed, gritting my teeth. I wanted to keep the peace in the family. But it seems she forgot that rather quickly.
She started running my home as if she owned the place, even though I’d made it clear from the start that the flat was mine, and I wouldn’t tolerate interference. We’d never had the warmest relationship. She’d always resented that I didn’t dance to her tune, and I despised her pushy, know-it-all attitude.
She immediately began complaining to my husband. But he’s a sensible man—he ignored her drama. His mother had always struggled to accept that the flat belonged to *me*. It infuriated her that she couldn’t boss me around like she was used to.
My mother-in-law has a younger daughter, Emily, four years my junior. A year ago, she married while already pregnant. The young couple moved in with her in-laws, but it didn’t last. Six months after the baby was born, Emily fled back to her mother. My mother-in-law wailed:
*”They’ve tortured my girl! What a monster of a mother-in-law she’s got—a proper snake, that woman! Always biting, belittling, insulting! How can anyone treat their daughter-in-law like that?”*
I nearly laughed. This *horrible* mother-in-law of hers was just like her—a mirror image. Poetic justice, if you ask me.
Emily didn’t divorce; her husband still sent money. A month later, he moved back in—into her mother’s cramped one-bed flat. Of course, it was tight, so my mother-in-law slept on the sofa in the kitchen. She clashed constantly with her son-in-law, and the kicker? Emily took *his* side against her mother:
*”Mum, don’t you dare ruin my marriage!”*
I told my mother-in-law flatly:
*”Maybe ask them to move out and rent somewhere?”*
*”With what money? Emily’s on maternity leave, and her husband earns peanuts. What can they afford?”*
*”That’s their problem. And it’s got nothing to do with us.”*
But she started visiting more often. At first, she moaned about her bad luck, then about her aching back from the kitchen sofa, then about rows with her son-in-law. Finally, she dropped the bomb:
*”I can’t live with them anymore! Can I stay with you? Just for a little while?”*
I wanted to say no. But my husband pleaded:
*”Mum will only stay for two months. I’ve talked to Emily—they’re sorting out a place soon.”*
I caved. But I laid down the rules. She nodded sweetly: *”Of course, love, I understand.”* For two weeks, she was quiet as a mouse. Then the nonsense began.
She started rearranging everything—her tacky doilies everywhere, shifting paintings, insisting we change the curtains. I bit my tongue at first. Then complained to my husband. He tried reasoning with her—useless. Months passed, and *temporary* turned into half a year. Emily, as I’d suspected, had no plans to move.
The nitpicking got worse: *”You waste too much water!”, “You can’t cook properly!”, “You don’t clean right!”* One day, she binned all my cleaning products and replaced them with vile, stinking grey soap, declaring: *”Chemicals are poison! We’ll do things the old-fashioned way!”*
Worst of all? She kept throwing out food—even meals I’d just made—claiming they had *”bad energy”* or weren’t *”healthy for my son.”* That’s when I snapped. No more holding back, no running to my husband—I said it all:
*”You’re living in MY flat. I allowed you to stay—temporarily. Well, your time’s up. Pack your things and go back to your daughter. I don’t need another mother. I’m a grown woman and won’t be told how to live in MY own home!”*
She sulked. When my husband came home, she wailed about me. He just shrugged:
*”Sort it out yourselves. I’m not getting involved.”*
So she went all in, insisting she was *”older and wiser”* and that I *”owed her gratitude.”* That’s when I ended it:
*”Gratitude? For turning my home into a nightmare? I never asked for your advice. And I certainly won’t let you turn my flat into a madhouse annex!”*
I gave her a month to leave. Let them sort their own mess. Why should I be hostage to their chaos? She failed with her daughter—did she really think she could ruin my life too?
No, thank you. Enough is enough. *My* house, *my* rules.
**Lesson learned: Kindness should never mean surrendering your own peace. Boundaries exist for a reason—defend them, or someone else will decide your life for you.**
