My mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, announced she was moving in with her own mother, Granny Dorothy, in the countryside, leaving her house to me and Andrew. I nearly jumped for joy. A house of our own! Spacious, with a garden, a veranda where we could raise children and host weekend barbecues—it was a dream come true. Andrew and I already imagined redecorating rooms, painting walls, and throwing a housewarming party. But as it turned out, Margaret Elizabeth had no intention of sitting still, whether in the village or anywhere else. She kept returning, turning our home upside down, and I no longer knew how to handle this whirlwind. She’s lively, alright, but her habits and endless visits have turned our dream into some never-ending circus.
It all began six months ago. Margaret Elizabeth, who’s past sixty, mind you, suddenly decided she wanted to be closer to her mother, Granny Dorothy, who—just for context—is eighty-five. “I ought to help Mum,” she declared. “And you young ones could use the house.” Andrew and I were over the moon. The house was solid, roomy, with a vegetable patch and even an old apple tree in the garden. We started planning renovations at once, dreaming of a nursery for our son and a study for Andrew. Margaret Elizabeth packed her things, left us half the furniture, and moved to the village, three hours away. Back then, I thought, “Now we’ll finally have peace.” How wrong I was.
Two weeks after she left, she turned up on our doorstep. “Missed the city!” she announced, dragging a huge suitcase behind her. Foolishly, I assumed it was just for the weekend. But no—Margaret Elizabeth stayed for a month. In that time, she rearranged the living room furniture (“better for the energy flow”), repotted my plants (“you’re watering them wrong”), and even took over cooking dinners—meals Andrew now avoids. Her signature dish? A soup so packed with onions it makes your eyes water before you even reach the kitchen. I tried hinting that we had our own ways, but she just waved me off. “Emily, you’re young yet—you’ll learn to manage a proper home!”
Finally, I snapped. “Margaret Elizabeth,” I said, “we’re grateful for the house, but it’s ours now. Let us live our way.” She just tutted. “Oh, Emily, don’t fuss—I’m only trying to help!” And off she went back to the village. I sighed, thinking it was a one-time visit. No such luck.
Since then, she’s never stopped interfering. She drops in unannounced—sometimes for days, sometimes weeks. Each time is like a storm. One day, she decides our garden is “neglected” and digs up my roses to plant cabbages because “flowers are pointless.” Another day, she launches a deep clean, tossing out my old magazines—which, mind you, I was collecting. Once, she hauled an ancient dresser from the village, calling it a “family heirloom,” and plonked it right in the middle of our lounge. Andrew just laughs. “Mum, you’re like an interior designer!” I’m not laughing anymore. I’m at my wits’ end.
The funny thing is, Granny Dorothy seems perfectly fine without her. Despite her age, she tends her own garden, milks goats, even gossips with neighbours on her bench. But Margaret Elizabeth insists she’s “bored” and “needs to check on us.” Check on us? Don’t get me started on her parenting advice. “Emily, you’re too soft—he ought to help around the house!” she scolds, then spoils our son with sweets and lets him stay up past midnight watching cartoons. I don’t know how to make it clearer—we want to run our own home.
The other day, I broke and spoke to Andrew. “Your mum’s driving us mad,” I said. “Can’t we ask her to visit less?” He just sighed. “She means well, Em. Give her time—she’ll settle into village life.” Time? I’m at my limit! She recently announced she’s coming for the entire summer to “help with the garden.” Three months of her “help”? I nearly panicked. Then yesterday, she rang to say she’d found us the “perfect dog”—some scraggly stray from the village. “Every home needs a companion!” Andrew’s thrilled. I’m horrified. We’ve got enough “companionship” from her.
I’m plotting solutions. Maybe enrol her in a city hobby group? Knitting, ballroom dancing—anything to keep her busy. Or buy her a seaside holiday? At this rate, I’ll start dreaming of emigrating. Joking—mostly—but this is spiralling. Andrew promises to talk to her, but I know he feels guilty. Meanwhile, I’m mourning our dream of a quiet family nest.
Do other people have mothers-in-law like this? How do they cope? I’m ready to write a manual: *Surviving the Restless Mother-in-Law*. For now, I remind myself—this is our house, and Margaret Elizabeth is just a guest. But if she really brings that dog, I might start packing. Or at least hide in the cellar till autumn.
