**”A Bagful of Shame”: How My Mother-in-Law Pushed Me Over the Edge**
Emily was sorting through her wardrobe when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. There, beaming on the doorstep, stood her mother-in-law—Margaret Wilkins.
“Hello, love! Thought I’d pop round for a cuppa,” she chirped, bustling in before Emily could protest.
“Come in,” Emily said, forcing a polite smile while silently bracing herself. “Just let me finish folding these, and we’ll have tea.”
They settled in the lounge. Emily resumed tidying her clothes while Margaret plonked herself into an armchair, eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
Then she spotted the shopping bag by the chair. Peering inside, Margaret gasped dramatically.
“Emily! What on earth is this disgrace?”
“More clothes, I see!” she tutted, eyeing the bags strewn across the sofa with disapproval.
“They’re old purchases,” Emily sighed, rolling her eyes. “Just organising.”
“Does my son know how you’re spending his hard-earned money?” Margaret sniffed.
“I earn my own money, *thank you*,” Emily snapped, folding faster to cut the conversation short.
But Margaret wasn’t done. She plucked a dress from the bag, holding it up like Exhibit A.
“This belongs on a nightclub floor, not in a married woman’s wardrobe,” she sneered.
“The tag’s still on. Means it hasn’t seen daylight yet,” Emily said icily, snatching it back.
“Thank heavens for that!” Margaret huffed. “Aren’t you a bit old for this sort of thing?”
“I’m twenty-nine, not fifty-nine,” Emily reminded her with a frosty smile.
“At your age, you should be covering up, not parading about like a pop star’s groupie,” Margaret scolded. “No wonder I’ve no grandchildren!”
“How is my wardrobe related to children?” Emily hissed, fists clenching.
“Obvious, isn’t it? Dressing like that means you’re on the prowl for someone younger!” Margaret declared, smug as a detective cracking a case.
Emily turned pale with fury.
“So, what—married women should dress like Victorian spinsters now?”
“A proper wife dresses modestly!” Margaret thundered. “And don’t get me started on your *undergarments*!”
“You went through my *lingerie*?!” Emily choked, rage boiling over.
“Didn’t have to! Left them hanging in the bathroom like a lingerie ad!” Margaret scoffed. “No self-respecting woman wears such *scraps*!”
“Are you *serious*?” Emily’s nails dug into her palms. “Shall I get office-approved granny pants to please you?”
“A decent married woman wouldn’t own such things!” Margaret smacked the armrest for emphasis.
“I’m twenty-nine, not dead. I’ll dress as I like,” Emily gritted out.
“Oh, you *like* the attention, don’t you?” Margaret cried, flinging her hands up. “Other men gawping at you!”
“Think what you want,” Emily said, exhausted. “But my wardrobe stays mine.”
“You’re impossible!” Margaret stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the teacups.
When her husband, James, got home, Emily unloaded the whole ordeal.
“Mum mentioned you dress ‘provocatively’,” he said, wincing. “Ignore her. But maybe… avoid fishnet tights around her? Sets her off.”
“*Nothing* pleases her!” Emily exploded.
“She’ll grumble and move on,”詹姆斯dismissed with a wave.
He was wrong.
A month later, Margaret returned armed with fresh ammunition:
“You’re posting *photos* online! My bridge club saw them! The shame!” she wailed.
“They’re just jealous,” Emily said coolly.
Margaret huffed off in a theatrical exit. Emily sighed, relieved—surely that was the end of it.
She was mistaken.
Six months later, when they left for holiday, handing Margaret the keys “just in case,” they returned to a horror show.
Half Emily’s wardrobe had vanished.
“It’s *her*!” Emily gasped, racing through the rooms. “Your mum had the keys!”
“No way,” James stalled. “I’ll call her.”
But Margaret sobbed down the line: “Me? *Never*!”
Emily shook her head. “I’m calling the police.”
Only then did Margaret crack:
“Fine, yes! I binned your *tarty rags*! For your own good—you’d rather dress up than start a family!”
James lost it.
“Mum, are you *mad*?” he roared. “Now I’m footing the bill for a new wardrobe!”
“Well—” Margaret sniffled.
“Hand the keys back. And don’t *ever* drop by unannounced!” he snapped.
For her birthday, Margaret got three sad roses—no lavish gift.
Emily, meanwhile, went shopping—with James’s eager blessing: “Buy whatever you want, love. You’ve earned it.”
