I’ve never lived with a mother-in-law—and I’ve got no intention of putting up with daughters-in-law in my own home either.
I’m 56, and I’m perfectly happy with how things are. After my divorce, I realised my peace of mind is what matters most. These days, I live with a man—we’re happy together, but we haven’t bothered with marriage. No need to muddle up inheritance papers and legalities. We stay at his countryside cottage, while my city flat is still mine. It’s cosy, lived-in, with my favourite sofa, my recipe books, and the smell of coffee in the mornings. Sometimes I pop back when work calls me into town, but most days I’m out in the quiet, fresh air.
I’ve got a son, Oliver, 23. He lives in my city flat. I don’t charge him rent—I cover the bills myself because I want him to find his feet without that pressure. He’s got a job, seems to be trying. But turns out, my expectations and his idea of how things should go are two very different things.
This spring, I barely came into town. Work was remote, meetings were online—lovely. Then out of the blue, I got called to the office to sign some urgent paperwork. Didn’t bother warning Oliver—figured I’d just drop in overnight, sort it in the morning, and head back to the countryside.
But when I opened the door to my flat… there was a stranger. A girl in my dressing gown, towel on her head, fresh out of the shower. We just stared at each other, stunned.
“Who are you, and what are you doing in my home?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
She stammered something about Oliver letting her stay, how he’d said it was fine. Turns out, my son had moved his girlfriend into my flat while I was “away at the cottage.” Didn’t even ask. Just decided that if Mum wasn’t there, he could set up his little love nest.
And my things were everywhere—my clothes, my documents, my books, my makeup. Didn’t faze either of them. The girl acted like she owned the place—blasting the hairdryer, banging pots around, raiding the fridge without so much as offering me a cuppa. I stood in the hallway, feeling like I’d been pushed out of my own life.
I sat in the kitchen and waited for Oliver.
When he came in, I didn’t shout. Just said:
“Love, I’m not about to lecture you. But listen—I won’t have daughters-in-law in my home. If you want to build a life with someone? Brilliant. But do it in your own space. Pack your things and go. Where you end up isn’t my problem.”
He tried arguing—“Mum, you don’t even live here anymore! You said the flat would be mine and Emily’s!”
“After I’m gone, it will be,” I said. “But while I’m alive, it’s *my* home. I want to walk into it without tripping over strangers. And I definitely won’t rearrange my life for someone else’s relationship.”
Oliver left. Took Emily with him. They rented a place. He’s sulking—won’t call. Word is, she’s now complaining about my “difficult personality” and how I “ruined their happy home.” Honestly, it’s laughable. I never lived with my mother-in-law, and I’m not about to let another woman take over my space.
Yes, I love my son. But love doesn’t mean endless tolerance. My home is my castle. I’ve worked too hard, been through too much, to hand over my last bit of peace to people who think they’re *owed* it.
Let them learn to stand on their own. Let them pay rent, budget, wash up, do laundry, handle bills. That’s adulthood. Me? I want quiet. I want to walk into my home knowing I won’t have to share a bathroom with someone else’s knickers or overhear gossip about me in my own kitchen.
I’m not ashamed of choosing myself. I’ve earned the right to live in peace. And in my home, there’ll be no daughters-in-law—no sons-in-law, either.
