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 fifty-six, and honestly, I’m happy just as I am. After my divorce, I realised one thing—my peace of mind is priceless. These days, I live with a lovely bloke—we get on brilliantly, but we’ve not bothered with marriage. No need to muddle up inheritance or paperwork. We stay at his place in the countryside, while my flat in London is still mine—cosy, lived-in, with my favourite sofa, my recipe books, and the smell of fresh coffee in the mornings. I pop back now and then for work, but mostly, I’m out here in the quiet, breathing in the fresh air.
My son, Oliver, is 23 and lives in my London flat. I don’t charge him rent, and I cover the bills—no point weighing him down while he’s finding his feet. He’s got a job, seems to be trying. But turns out, what I expected and what he’s actually doing are two very different things.
This past spring, I barely went into the city. Worked remotely, met clients over Zoom—it was perfect. Then out of nowhere, I got called into the office to sign some urgent documents. Didn’t bother telling Oliver I was coming—figured I’d just crash there overnight, sort the paperwork in the morning, and head straight back to the countryside.
But when I opened the door to my flat, I was met with… 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 the hell are you, and what are you doing in my flat?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
She stumbled over her words, mumbling something about Oliver “letting her stay.” Turns out, my son had moved his girlfriend in while I was “never here anyway.” Didn’t even ask. Just decided that if Mum’s away, might as well play house.
And my stuff was *everywhere*—my clothes, my papers, books, makeup. Didn’t seem to bother either of them. This girl acted like she owned the place—blow-drying her hair, banging pots about, helping herself to food without even offering me a cuppa. I stood there in the hallway, feeling like I’d been pushed out of my own life.
I sat at the kitchen table and waited for Oliver to get home.
When he walked in, I didn’t shout. Just said:
“Love, I’m not going 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* space. Pack your things and go. Where you live next is your business, not mine.”
He tried to argue:
“But Mum, you’re never even here! You said the flat would be mine—mine and Sophie’s!”
“After I’m *gone*, yes,” I said. “While I’m alive, it’s *my* home. I want to walk in whenever I like without tripping over strangers. And I definitely won’t rearrange my life for someone else’s relationship.”
Oliver left. Took Sophie with him. Rented a place. Sulking now—won’t call. Apparently, she’s moaning about my “difficult personality” and how I “ruined their happy home.” I just laugh. I never lived with *my* mother-in-law, and I won’t be the woman whose home gets taken over by someone else’s rules.
Yes, I love my son. But love isn’t the same as letting people walk all over you. 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* being a grown-up. 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 them slagging me off in *my* kitchen.
I’m not sorry for choosing myself. I’ve earned the right to live calmly. And in *my* home, I won’t have daughters-in-law, sons-in-law, or anyone else’s drama.
