“No, Mum. You wont be visiting us againnot today, not tomorrow, not next year.” A story of patience worn thin.
For a long time, I struggled to find the right words to begin this story, but only two came to mind: *audacity* and *silent complicity*. One came from my mother-in-law, the other from my husband. And in the middle, there was mea woman who tried to be kind, polite, and patient. Until I realised that if I stayed quiet, nothing of *our* home would remain but an empty shell.
I never understood how someone could walk into anothers home and take what wasnt theirs, as if everything belonged to them. But thats exactly what my mother-in-law did. And all of it for her daughtermy husbands sister.
Every visit ended with meat vanishing from the freezer, pans of meatballs disappearing from the stove, and even my brand-new hair straightener, which Id never even used, being taken. *”Emily has such curly hair, and youre always at homeyou dont need this,”* she explained later, without a shred of shame.
I endured it. I bit my tongue. I spoke to my husband. He just shrugged. *”Shes my mumshe doesnt mean harm. Well buy another.”*
But the final straw came on our fifth wedding anniversary. Wed planned a romantic dinner for two, just like the old days. Id picked out my dressall I needed were the shoes. And I bought them. Beautiful, expensive, the ones Id dreamed of since last summer. I left the box in the bedroom, waiting for the big day.
Nothing went as planned.
That evening, I was delayed at work and asked my husband to pick up our daughter from nursery. He agreed but then had an unexpected meeting, so instead, he called his mother. He gave her the keys to let herself in and watch little Sophie.
When I got home, I went straight to the bedroomand froze. The box was gone.
“James, where are my new shoes?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“How should I know?” He shrugged.
“Was your mother here?”
“Yes, she came to get Sophie, stayed a bit, then left.”
“And the keys?” I kept my voice steady.
“I gave them to her. So what?”
I picked up my phone and called her. She answered immediately.
“Good evening,” I began, measured. “I think you know why Im calling.”
“No idea,” she replied, utterly unfazed.
“Where are my new shoes?”
“I gave them to Emily. Youve got plenty of shoes already. She had nothing decent for the New Years party.”
And with that*click*she hung up. No remorse. No apology. Just silence.
My husband, as ever, simply said, *”Well buy another pairdont stress. Shes my mum.”*
I stood up. Took his arm. Led him to the shopping centre. And there, in front of the display, I pointed to the one pair Id been eyeing for monthsa pair that nearly gave him a heart attack.
“Eleanor, thats half my wages!” he gasped, turning pale.
“You said wed buy another. So we are.” I held firm.
He paid. And in doing so, he paid the price for his silent complicity.
But the story didnt end there. On the way home, his phone rang. His mother: *”Ill pop by today. Ive got bags of fresh herbsmy freezers full. Ill leave them at yours and collect them in a month or two.”*
I watched him stare at the screen. His lips pressed tight. Then, for the first time, he dialled her number and said in a voice that brooked no argument:
“Mum, youre not coming here again. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Because your last *favour* cost us far too much.”
He hung up. And I looked at him, feeling, for the first time in so long, that we were truly a familya home where doors dont open for those who take, but for those who respect.
Sometimes, love means knowing when to say no.
