Nothing, dear mother! You have your own home—so that’s where you should live. Don’t come here unless we invite you.

Author Walton MerrittReading 4 minViews 1

Nothing, dear Mum! Youve got your own house, havent you? Thats where you live. And dont come here unless we invite you.

My mum lives in a small, cosy village beside a winding river. Theres a stretch of woodland right behind her garden gate, overflowing with blackberries and wild mushrooms in season. Since I was little, Id barrel out of her backdoor with my basket, feeling at one with the great outdoorsor at least, as close as the English countryside gets.

I married my old school friend, Tom. His parents live near Mum, just across the village green, but their house doesnt back onto the river or woods. Thats why, whenever we escape London for a breath of fresh air, its Mums place we stay at.

But lately, my mother has changedage, perhaps, or maybe jealousy over her son-in-law (she always thought Tom was *too* handy). Our holidays started turning into squabbles, escalating from mild grumbling to full-on barneys. The peace and quiet became more like a warzone. Even when we stayed a couple of times at Toms parents’ place, Mum managed to kick off a row with her own partner, this time over whether youre supposed to wash mushrooms or just brush the mud offa classic village dispute. My mother-in-law got so cross she practically shouted the roof off. The whole high street probably heard their ancient grievances echoing across the allotments.

After a month of the dust settling, Tom and I had the flash of inspirationin true British fashion, wed build our own house, somewhere neutral where no one could get their feelings in a twist over foraged fruit or the appropriate length of lawn. A place we could retreat to and finally feel at home.

Sorting out the land took absolutely agesright up there with getting a GP appointmentbut we did it in the end. Toms parents started helping out straight away; his dad practically lived on the building site, sporting high-vis and drinking copious amounts of tea. If Id handed out medals for enthusiasm, hed have won the gold.

The only fly in our ointment was, predictably, Mum. Shed pop over, hand out advice you didnt ask for, criticise all our progress, and generally be about as restful as a fire drill. But in spite of everything, the house went upall very Grand Designs, but with less Kevin McCloud and more passive-aggressive commentary.

One year on, we had our own place at last. I fantasised about serenity, but it didnt last. Mum simply refused to curtail her visits. She accused us of being selfish, said we left her in the lurch, totally ignoring that Tom had always mowed her lawn, fixed her roof, and scraped mud off her wellies.

And one afternoon, Mum said out of the blue:

Why do you keep coming here, anyway? Stay in your city house. When you come here, you just rub your money in my face.

That was the last straw for Tom. In the gentlest voice, he walked up to Mumbut you could sense danger in that calm.

Whats this all about, love? Mum tried, backing towards the door.

Nothing, dear Mum! Youve got your own house, havent you? Thats where you live. Just dont come round unless we invite you. Give us a quiet weekend every now and again, alright? And if youre ever in a pickleif your sheds on firegive us a ring and well dash over!

A fire? What fire?

At that, Mum nearly bolted out the door. I bit my tongue to keep from laughing as I watched her peering round anxiously, scurrying towards her front gate. Tom, after a deep breath, threw up his hands,

Well, sorrymaybe the fire thing was a bit much.

No, quite right!

And we had a proper belly laugh together, reliving the look on Mums face. Since then, its been blissfully quiet in our new home. Mum doesnt drop by, she accepts Toms help, but her chats are strictly yes or no. But Im pretty sure she still worries about that imaginary shed fire.

Why I Don’t Want to Leave My Children with Their Grandmothers I’m 31 years old, a full-time mum raising two daughters aged 3 and 1 by choice—and here’s why. When I had my first child, I naively assumed the grandmothers would naturally step in to help. In reality, they were more of a hindrance than a help, and I found myself managing on my own. Here’s how it went for me: After my daughter’s birth, and especially once we got home, I felt completely helpless—not knowing where to even start with a newborn. What seems basic to me now, after two kids, felt overwhelming back then. Naturally, there weren’t any “instructions” on caring for a baby written in my head! I expected the older generation to have all the answers—how to change, bathe, feed, trim nails, and care for a baby. But it quickly became clear their advice conflicted—even about bath time! Over time, I mastered nappies and more, and I’m grateful to both my mum and mother-in-law. They still make me smile with their very “British granny” advice: Granny 1 (my mum-in-law): – Recite a prayer over the bath water and only let the child drink that! – Six months later, I bought a water filter. – Only use grey soap on the baby, and apply it to any rash. – Your children are poorly because you’re raising them “wrong” (though never clear why!). – If your baby cries, take them to a local “healer”—that’ll fix it. Granny 2 (my mum): – Babies crying? Ignore it—it’ll pass. – Fever? Give paracetamol, problem solved. – You buy them far too many toys, you know. – I can babysit Saturdays at 1pm, but only until 4—then I’m off to the cinema! – Sweets and salty snacks for the baby? Why not, start at 6 months. Let them try anything if they reach for it. I love my mum but I do now question a lot about my own upbringing! There were times I was left with my gran and subsisted on pasta all day, while at home it was always fatty foods. My coughs were sometimes ignored until I ended up ill…and now I understand my tummy troubles as an adult! The bottom line is: I get on with our grannies, but I can’t imagine leaving my kids with them for more than a few hours. Closely supervised? Sure. But am I overprotective? Maybe—but I’m just not comfortable with the alternative!

Why Should It Matter Who Cared for Grandma? Legally, That Flat Should Be Mine! – My Mum Argues Bitterly With Me My own mum is threatening to take me to court. Why? Because Grandma’s flat didn’t go to her—or even to me—but to my daughter. My mum thinks it’s a grave injustice. She insists Grandma’s flat should rightfully be hers. But Grandma chose otherwise. Why? Probably because my husband and I lived with Grandma and cared for her during her final five years. My mum could quite rightfully be called selfish. Her wants and interests have always come before anyone else’s. She’s had three marriages but just two children: me and my younger sister. My sister and I have a great relationship. But things with Mum are a different story. I can’t even remember my dad. He divorced Mum when I was only two. Until I was six, Mum and I lived at Grandma’s. For some reason, I thought Grandma was terribly unpleasant—maybe because Mum was always in tears. Only later, as an adult, did I learn that Grandma was actually a good person, just desperate to set her daughter straight. Later, Mum married again and we moved in with my stepdad. That’s when my sister was born. Mum stayed with him for seven years, then divorced him too. This time we didn’t return to Grandma’s; instead my stepdad went off to work and let us stay in his flat. Three years later, Mum married a third time and we moved in with her new husband. Obviously, he wasn’t thrilled about his new wife’s kids, but he never treated us badly—he simply ignored us. So did Mum, who was busy being wrapped up in her new relationship, riddled with jealousy and dramatic outbursts. Every month, Mum would start packing her bags, but my stepdad always managed to talk her out of leaving. My sister and I got used to it, and eventually stopped caring. I took over raising my sister because Mum had no time. Luckily, both our grandmothers helped us a lot. I eventually left for university accommodation, and my sister went to live with Grandma. Dad always helped her, but Mum only called us at Christmas. I grew up accepting Mum as she was—the kind of parent who never worried about us. My sister, however, could never forgive her, and especially resented that Mum didn’t show up for her graduation. We both grew up. My sister married and moved to another city. My boyfriend and I lived together for ages but were in no hurry to wed, renting a place and visiting Grandma often. We were close, but I tried never to be a nuisance. Then Grandma fell ill and was hospitalised. The doctors told me she needed plenty of care, so I started coming daily—bringing groceries, cooking, cleaning, and, most importantly, making sure she took her medicines. For six months, this was life. Sometimes my boyfriend came too and handled the odd DIY job. One day, Grandma suggested we move in to save money for our own home. Of course we agreed. Grandma liked my boyfriend, and we all got on well. Six months later, I found out I was pregnant. We decided to keep the baby and Grandma was overjoyed about her great-grandchild. We had a simple wedding and took the family out to a café—my mum didn’t even show up or call with congratulations. When my daughter was just two months old, Grandma fell and broke her leg. Caring for a newborn and Grandma was almost impossible alone, so I called Mum for help. She refused, saying she wasn’t well and would come by another time—a promise she never kept. Six months later, Grandma suffered a stroke. Suddenly, she was bedridden. The care was gruelling, and I don’t know how I’d have managed without my husband. Grandma slowly regained some mobility and speech, and lived another two and a half years—long enough to watch her great-granddaughter learn to walk. She passed away quietly in her sleep, leaving us heartbroken. Mum only came to the funeral. A month later, she turned up demanding that I move out so she could claim the flat as her own. She was sure she’d inherit it—completely unaware Grandma had signed the property over to my daughter after she was born, leaving Mum without a penny. Mum was furious, demanding I hand over the flat or she’d sue. “Look how cunning you are! You tricked that old woman out of her flat and now you’re living there yourself! You won’t get away with this! It makes no difference who cared for Grandma—the flat should be mine!” But Mum won’t be getting that flat. I know this for sure—I’ve checked everything with the solicitor and notary. We will stay in the home Grandma gave us. And if our next child is a girl, we’ll give her Grandma’s name.

My Husband Left Me After Eleven Years of Marriage, Claiming the Reason Was Surprisingly Simple: He Said I’d Stopped Taking Care of Myself—Even Though He Never Once Spoke Openly About It When We Met, I Took Care of My Appearance Daily—Makeup, Stylish Clothes, Always Perfect Hair. I Worked, Went Out, Had Time for Myself. Then Came the Children, the Routines, the Responsibilities. I Kept Working, But Also Managed the House, the Food, the Cleaning, Doctors’ Appointments—All the Things That Keep a Family Going but Are Seldom Noticed. My Days Started Before 6am and Ended After Midnight. Many Times I’d Go Out Without Makeup Because There Simply Wasn’t Time. I’d Grab the First Clean Outfit I Could Find. Not Because I Didn’t Care—But Because I Was Exhausted. He’d Come Home, Eat, Watch TV, Fall Asleep—Never Asked How I Was or If I Needed Help. Gradually Came the Comments—That I Didn’t Look After Myself Like I Used To, That I Didn’t Wear Dresses, That I Looked Neglected. I Thought They Were Just Throwaway Remarks—Never Imagined They’d One Day Be His Reason to Leave. He Never Said “I Feel Distant From You” or “We Need to Talk.” He Just Packed His Bags One Day. The Day He Left He Told Me Clearly—He Didn’t Feel the Same, That I’d Changed, That He Missed the Woman Who Made an Effort for Him. I Reminded Him of Everything I Did For the Home, the Kids, Us. He Told Me It Wasn’t Enough—That He Needed to Feel Proud of the Woman by His Side. He Quietly Packed and Left. Days Later I Learned He Was Already Seeing Someone Else—A Woman Without Kids, With Time for the Gym, Able to Keep Herself Up Every Day. That’s When I Realised: The Problem Was Never Just the Makeup. Today I Still Wake Up Early, Still Work, Still Keep the Home Running. I Take Care of Myself When *I* Want, Not When Someone Demands It. I Didn’t Stop Looking After Myself for Lack of Love—I Stopped Because I Carried a Whole Life on My Shoulders. And Still, He Chose to Leave. I Think About Joining a Gym, But I Don’t Have Time. Whatever the Case—It Turns Out He Just Didn’t Want Me.

The most heartbreaking thing that happened to me in 2025 was discovering my husband was having an affair—and that my brother, my cousin, and my father had known all along. We’d been married for eleven years. The woman my husband was involved with worked as a secretary at the same firm where my brother worked. Their affair began after my brother introduced her to him. This was no accident. They kept running into each other at work, meetings, business functions, and social gatherings that my husband attended. My cousin also saw them together in those circles. They all knew each other. They all saw each other often. For months, my husband kept living with me as if nothing was wrong. I’d go to family get-togethers, chat with my brother, cousin, and father—never knowing all three were fully aware of his affair. Not one of them warned me. No one said a word. No one even tried to prepare me for what was happening behind my back. When I found out about the affair in October, I confronted my husband first. He admitted it. Then I talked to my brother. I asked directly if he’d known. He said “yes.” I asked him how long. “A few months,” he said. I asked why he never told me. He replied it wasn’t his problem, that it was between a husband and wife, and “men just don’t talk about these things.” Next, I spoke to my cousin—asked him the same questions. He knew, too. He said he’d seen behaviour and messages that made everything obvious. He hadn’t warned me because he “didn’t want to get involved” and “it wasn’t his place to interfere in someone else’s relationship.” Finally, I talked to my dad. I asked whether he knew as well. He said “yes.” I asked for how long. He said he’d known for a while. I asked why he hadn’t told me anything. He said he didn’t want any drama, that these things should be settled between husband and wife, and he wouldn’t intervene. Essentially, all three told me the same thing. After that, I moved out, and the house is now up for sale. There were no public arguments or dramatic confrontations—I refuse to demean myself for anyone. The woman continued to work at my brother’s firm. My brother, cousin, and father all carried on as usual with both my husband and her. At Christmas and New Year, my mum invited me to celebrate at her house, where my brother, cousin, and father would all be present. I told her I couldn’t come. I explained I simply wasn’t able to sit at a table with people who knew about the affair and chose to stay silent. They celebrated together. I wasn’t there for either holiday. Since October, I haven’t had any contact with any of the three. And I honestly don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive them.