My mother-in-law decided she would set the rules in *my* home. I had to remind her who was actually in charge.
It so happened that I had to let my mother-in-law move into my flat. Not because I wanted to—far from it. But my wonderful husband pleaded with me—his mother was in a tough spot. I agreed, gritting my teeth, willing to keep the peace. But she seemed to forget that favor rather quickly.
She started acting like she owned the place, rearranging things to her liking, even though I’d made it clear from the start that *this was my home*, and I wouldn’t tolerate interference. We’d never been on the best terms—she never liked that I wouldn’t bend to her will, and I couldn’t stand her domineering ways.
She complained to my husband constantly, but he was sensible—he never indulged her nonsense. She could never accept that the flat was mine, and it infuriated her that she couldn’t dictate how things should be.
My mother-in-law has a younger daughter—Emily, four years my junior. A year ago, she got married while already pregnant. The newlyweds 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 tormented my poor girl! That mother-in-law of hers is a real piece of work—always belittling, always picking at her! How can anyone treat their daughter-in-law like that?”*
I nearly laughed. This *terrible* mother-in-law was exactly like *her*—a mirror image. Poetic justice, I’d say.
Emily never divorced—her husband still sent money. A month later, he moved back in with her, right into her mother’s tiny one-bedroom flat. Of course, it was cramped, so my mother-in-law slept on the sofa in the living area. She clashed constantly with her son-in-law, and the funniest part? Emily backed her *husband* against her own mother:
*”Mum, don’t you dare ruin my marriage!”*
I told her point-blank:
*”Maybe they should find their own place?”*
*”And how will they manage that? Emily’s on maternity leave, and her husband barely earns pennies. What sort of place could they even afford?”*
*”That’s their problem. And it’s got nothing to do with us.”*
But she started visiting more often. First, it was complaints about her misfortunes, then about back pain from sleeping on the sofa, then rows with her son-in-law. Then came the big question:
*”I can’t live with them anymore! Can I stay with you? Just for a little while?”*
I wanted to refuse. But my husband begged:
*”Mum will only stay two months. Emily’s looking for a place—they’ll move out soon.”*
I caved. But I set ground rules. She nodded, all sweet and obliging: *”Of course, love, I understand.”* The first two weeks, she was quiet as a mouse. Then it started.
She began reshaping *my* home—her doilies everywhere, rearranging the pictures, suggesting new curtains. At first, I bit my tongue. Then I complained to my husband. He tried talking to her—no use. Those *”two months”* stretched into half a year. Emily, as I’d suspected, had no intention of moving out.
Soon, my mother-in-law was nitpicking everything: *”You waste water!”*, *”You cook this wrong!”*, *”You don’t clean properly!”* Once, she threw out all my cleaning supplies and replaced them with foul-smelling grey soap, insisting: *”Chemicals are poison—we’ll do things the old-fashioned way!”*
She even threw out freshly cooked food, claiming it had *”bad energy”* or wasn’t *”healthy enough for my son.”* I’d had enough. No more holding back, no more running to my husband—this time, I said exactly what I thought:
*”You are living in* my *flat. I allowed you to stay—temporarily. Well, your time’s up. Pack your things and go back to Emily. I don’t need a second mother. I’m a grown woman, and I won’t let anyone dictate how I live in* my *home!”*
She sulked. When my husband came home, she launched into complaints about me. He just shrugged:
*”Sort it out yourselves. I won’t get involved.”*
So she went all-in, claiming she was *”older and wiser”* and that I *”owed her gratitude.”* That’s when I ended it for good:
*”Gratitude? For turning my home into a battleground? I never asked for your advice, and I certainly won’t let you turn my flat into your personal madhouse!”*
I gave her a month to leave. Let *them* sort out their mess. Why should I suffer for their chaos? She couldn’t handle her own daughter—why did she think she could run *my* life?
No, thank you. Enough is enough. In *my* home—*my* rules. **A home only thrives when its keeper holds the reins.**
