“No, Mum. You won’t be coming over anymore. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year.” — A story where patience finally ran out.
I’d spent ages trying to figure out how to start this story, and the same two words kept popping into my head: cheek and silent compliance. One from my mother-in-law, the other from my husband. And sandwiched between them—me. A woman who’d tried so hard to be kind, polite, well-mannered. Until the day I realised that if I stayed quiet any longer, our home would be nothing more than an empty shell.
I still don’t understand how someone can just waltz into another person’s house and help themselves—as if everything in it belongs to them. That’s exactly what my mother-in-law did. And all for… her daughter. My husband’s sister.
Every visit ended with meat vanishing from the freezer, an entire pot of bolognese disappearing from the hob, and once, she even took my brand-new hair straightener. I hadn’t even used it yet—just swiped. Because, as she later explained, “Emma’s hair is so frizzy, and you hardly ever leave the house anyway.”
I put up with it. Gritted my teeth. Explained it to my husband. He’d shrug and say, “It’s just Mum—she doesn’t mean harm. We’ll buy a new one.”
But the final straw came just before our fifth wedding anniversary. We’d decided to do it properly—a fancy restaurant, like the old days. I’d already picked out the perfect dress. All I needed were the right shoes. So I bought them. Gorgeous, expensive, the ones I’d been dreaming about since last summer. Left them in their box in the bedroom, ready for the big night.
Of course, nothing ever goes to plan.
That day, I got stuck at work and asked my husband to collect our daughter from nursery. He agreed. But then, surprise surprise, he got tied up too, so he rang his mum. Handed her our keys so she could pick up Sophie and babysit at ours.
When I got home, I went straight to the bedroom. Froze. The shoebox was gone.
“James, where are my new heels?” I asked, already anticipating the answer.
“How should I know?” He shrugged.
“Was your mum here?”
“Yeah, she picked up Sophie, stayed a bit, then left.”
“And the keys?” I kept my voice steady.
“Well, I had to give them to her. What else could I do?”
I grabbed my phone, dialled her number. She answered on the first ring.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” I began, clipped. “I assume you know why I’m calling.”
“No idea,” she replied, utterly shameless.
“Where are my new shoes?”
“I gave them to Emma. You’ve got enough shoes as it is, and she needed something for her graduation party.”
Then she just… hung up. No shame. No apology. Just *click*—and silence.
James, ever predictable, sighed, “We’ll get you another pair, yeah? Don’t make a fuss. It’s just Mum.”
I stood up. Took his arm. Marched him straight to the shopping centre. And right there, in front of the display, I pointed at *the* pair—the ones I’d been ogling online for months. The ones that nearly gave him a heart attack when he saw the price.
“Lucy, that’s half my wages!” he choked out.
“You said we’d get another pair. So we are,” I replied sweetly.
He paid. A pricey lesson in the cost of silent compliance.
But the story doesn’t end there. On the way home, James got a text from his mum:
“Popping over tonight. Have bags of herbs—no room in my freezer. Will leave them at yours, collect in a month or two.”
I watched him stare at the screen. Saw his jaw tighten. Then, for the first time ever, he called her back and said, firmly:
“No, Mum. You won’t be coming over anymore. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Because your last ‘favour’ cost us far too much.”
He hung up. And when I looked at him, I finally felt it—that we were really a family. One where the door opens for people who respect us, not those who help themselves.
