My mother-in-law decided it was her right to set the rules in **my** house. I reminded her exactly who was in charge here.
Things took a turn when I had no choice but to let her move into my flat. Not because I wanted to—far from it. But my husband, wonderful as he is, begged me to help. His mother had fallen on hard times, and I agreed, gritting my teeth. I wanted to keep the peace. She, however, seemed to forget that the moment she crossed the threshold.
She started acting as though she owned the place, dictating how things should be, even though I made it clear from the start—this was **my** home, and I wouldn’t tolerate interference. We’d never been close. She resented that I didn’t bend to her will, and I despised her heavy-handed, domineering ways.
Complaints began—aimed straight at my husband. But he was sensible—he didn’t indulge her. The truth gnawed at her: this flat was mine, not his. She couldn’t stand that she couldn’t force her way like she always had.
Her youngest daughter, **Emily**, was four years my junior. She’d married in a hurry, already pregnant, and she and her husband moved in with his parents. It hadn’t lasted. Six months after the baby arrived, Emily fled back to her mother, and my mother-in-law wailed:
*”They’ve broken my girl! That woman—his mother—she’s a viper! Always biting, always belittling! How could she treat my daughter like that?”*
I nearly laughed. The woman she described was **her**—a perfect mirror. Poetic justice, I’d say.
Emily didn’t divorce. Her husband still sent money. A month later, he moved back in—into her mother’s tiny one-bed flat. Cramped didn’t begin to describe it. My mother-in-law slept on the kitchen sofa, clashing daily with her son-in-law while Emily, absurdly, took his side:
*”Mum, stop sabotaging my marriage!”*
I suggested plainly:
*”Why don’t you tell them to move out? Rent somewhere?”*
*”And live on what?”* she retorted. *”Emily’s on maternity leave, he earns peanuts. What sort of place could they afford?”*
*”Their problem. Not ours.”*
But soon, her visits to us grew frequent. First, it was woes about her back—aching from the sofa. Then, rows with her son-in-law. Then, the inevitable:
*”I can’t live like this anymore. Let me stay with you—just for a little while?”*
I wanted to refuse. But my husband pleaded:
*”Two months, love. That’s all. Emily’s sorting a place.”*
I caved—but laid down rules. She nodded meekly: *”Of course, darling, I understand.”*
For two weeks, she was quiet as a mouse. Then the rearranging began. Her doilies appeared everywhere. The paintings shifted. The curtains *had* to go. I bit my tongue, then complained to my husband. He talked to her—useless. Weeks bled into months. “Temporary” became six. Emily, as I’d guessed, wasn’t going anywhere.
The nitpicking escalated. *”You waste water!” “You can’t cook!” “You clean wrong!”* One day, she trashed all my cleaning supplies, replaced them with foul-smelling soap, and declared: *”Chemicals are poison—we’ll live properly!”*
Then came the food. She’d throw out meals—**my** meals—claiming they had *”bad energy”* or *”weren’t fit for my son.”* That’s when I snapped. No more patience. No running to my husband. This time, I faced her myself:
*”You’re living in **my** home. I allowed you here—**temporarily**. Well, your time’s up. Pack. Go back to Emily. I don’t need another mother—I’ve got one. And I won’t be lectured on how to live in **my** own house!”*
She sulked. When my husband returned, she whined to him. He just shrugged:
*”Sort it out yourselves. I’m not getting involved.”*
Her last resort? The *”I’m older, wiser—you should be grateful”* speech. That’s when I ended it:
*”Grateful? For turning my home into a battleground? I never asked for your lessons. And I **won’t** have my flat turned into your personal asylum!”*
I gave her a month. Let **her** clean up the mess she made with Emily. Why should I suffer for their chaos?
No. Enough. **My house. My rules.**
