“Just a day—and we got kicked out”: How my mother-in-law invited us over and then couldn’t handle our kids
When my mother-in-law invited us for the weekend at her countryside cottage, I’ll be honest—I wasn’t exactly thrilled. Our relationship’s always been… let’s say, lukewarm. We never argued outright, but there was no warmth either. She only called occasionally to check in on the grandkids, and I was fine with keeping things to short chats. But after retiring, Margaret suddenly decided she wanted to be “Granny of the Year” and spend time with the children. “Come over for a barbecue, get some fresh air, relax!” she insisted. Well, if my husband was up for it and the kids would enjoy it, I agreed.
He even left work early. We arrived, settled in—burgers sizzling on the grill, kids playing, lovely weather. They put us up in the guest room upstairs—comfortable and spacious. The evening was actually nice; my father-in-law poured my husband a couple of whiskeys, and they caught up. Meanwhile, I put our youngest, Oliver, to bed while our eldest, Archie, stayed outside with his grandparents—some neighbors had dropped by. A couple of hours later, I come back to find Margaret looking absolutely frazzled. “Take him. He’s drained all my energy! Running around nonstop!”
Next morning, I got up early to make breakfast. Oliver was with me in the kitchen; Archie slept in a bit, then went outside to kick a ball around. Suddenly, Margaret storms in, scowling. “Your son’s completely out of control! Clattering down the stairs, shouting—some of us are still sleeping!” Except no one was—it was nearly nine. And Archie wasn’t clattering, just walking normally. But there was no reasoning with her—if her grandson made noise, clearly I was a terrible mother.
Later, Archie did run down the stairs when everyone was already outside. “There! He’s at it again! No peace with them around!” she huffed dramatically, pressing a hand to her forehead like some Victorian heroine. I bit my tongue, but inside, I was fuming: “Then why invite us if your own grandkids are too much for you?!”
Then Oliver had a meltdown—teething pain. Full-blown tantrum. Margaret recoiled like she’d been electrocuted. “Right, that’s it! I can’t take any more! Leave today! Another day of this, and I’ll lose my mind!” she wailed, like she was the one suffering. My husband tried to push back—”Mum, I’m still tired from last night; I can’t drive yet!”—but she immediately produced a breathalyser. Yes, you heard that right—she’d been testing his alcohol levels every half-hour, just to know when she could kick us out.
By lunchtime, we were packing up. Goodbyes were frosty. My husband still talks to his parents; I don’t pick up the phone anymore. And I won’t. Last week, she rang again—wanted us to spend New Year’s at her “idyllic” countryside getaway. My reply was firm: “No. Once was enough. Your hospitality’s more than I can stomach.”
