**A Bag of Shame: How My Mother-in-Law Pushed Me Too Far**
I was sorting through my wardrobe when the doorbell rang unexpectedly. There stood my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, beaming at me.
“Hello, dear! Just popped round for tea,” she chirped, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation.
“Come in,” I forced a polite smile, though my stomach tightened. “Let me just finish tidying up, then we’ll have tea.”
We moved to the sitting room. I continued folding my clothes while Margaret settled into the armchair, watching me with keen interest. Then her eyes landed on a shopping bag near the chair. Peering inside, she gasped.
“Good heavens, Amelia! What on earth is this?”
“More clothes, I see,” she tutted, eyeing the other bags on the sofa disapprovingly.
“Those are old purchases,” I sighed, rolling my eyes. “I’m just organising my wardrobe.”
“Does my son know you’re wasting money like this?” she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I *do* earn my own money, you know,” I snapped, folding faster to end the conversation.
But Margaret wasn’t done. She pulled out one of the dresses and held it up.
“Only a woman of ill repute would wear something like this,” she sneered.
“The tag’s still on,” I said coldly, reaching for it. “So no, I haven’t worn it anywhere.”
“Thank goodness for that,” she muttered, handing it back. “Honestly, at your age, should you be dressing like a teenager?”
“I’m twenty-nine, not sixty-nine,” I replied, my smile icy.
“A married woman ought to dress modestly—not flaunt herself,” she scoffed. “No wonder I still don’t have grandchildren!”
“What on earth does my wardrobe have to do with children?” I barely kept my temper in check.
“Simple. If you dress like this, you’re clearly looking for attention from other men,” she declared triumphantly.
I went pale with anger.
“So, what? Married women should dress like nuns now?”
“A respectable wife *should* be discreet!” Margaret barked, thumping the armrest. “And your undergarments—good grief!”
“You went through my things?!” I was furious.
“Don’t be ridiculous! I just saw them in the laundry. No decent woman wears such scandalous things, let alone a married one!”
“Are you serious?” My hands balled into fists. “Shall I buy office-approved knickers next?”
“A proper lady wouldn’t wear them at all!” she huffed.
“I’m young, I’m allowed to feel attractive,” I hissed.
“Nonsense! You dress like that to tempt other men!” she cried dramatically.
“Believe whatever you want,” I said flatly. “But I’ll wear what I please.”
“Hopeless!” she snapped, storming out and slamming the door.
When my husband, Edward, got home, I told him everything.
“Mum mentioned you dress a bit provocatively,” he said awkwardly. “Just ignore her. And, er… maybe avoid fishnets when she’s around—it winds her up.”
“She hates *everything* I wear!” I fumed.
“She’ll get over it,” he shrugged.
But she didn’t.
A month later, Margaret was back—this time with new ammunition.
“You’re posting photos online! My friends have seen them! It’s disgraceful!”
“They’re just jealous,” I said calmly.
She huffed and left. I sighed, thinking it was over.
I was wrong.
Six months later, when Edward and I went on holiday—leaving Margaret a spare key “just in case”—we returned to a nightmare.
Most of my clothes were gone.
“It was *her*,” I whispered, checking every room. “She had the only key!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edward stalled, but when he called her, she burst into tears.
“Me? How could you accuse me, darling?”
“I’m calling the police,” I said.
Only then did she crack.
“Fine! I did it! I threw out all those indecent rags for your own good—so you’d focus on your marriage!”
Edward was livid.
“Have you lost your mind, Mum?!” he roared. “I’m the one replacing her entire wardrobe now!”
“But—” she tried.
“Return the key. And don’t visit again,” he snapped.
For her birthday, Margaret received three lonely roses—no lavish gift this time.
As for me? That same day, Edward took me shopping.
“Buy whatever you like, love,” he insisted. “You’ve earned it.”
