For some reason, throughout my life, I have constantly been surrounded by tales of tension between mothers-in-law and their daughters-in-law. It started in my earliest childhood, and looking back now, I wonder if it was simply fates odd sense of humour.
My first such memory goes back to the silent battles between my great-grandmother and grandmother. My parents used to take me to my grandmothers house before I was granted a place at the local nursery, and there, within the walls of her red-bricked terrace in Norwich, I saw what could only be called domestic warfare. It was as though that modest house sheltered two entirely different women. To me, one grandmother beamed kindly, doling out sweet biscuits, telling magical stories, and sketching doodles with me at the kitchen table. But that same woman would then turn and rage at her bedridden mother-in-law, railing at her plight and bitterly muttering, How much longer will you be with us, then?
When my great-grandmother finally passed, we left our rented flat and moved into Grandmothers home. No sooner did the dust settle from our unpacking than a new storm eruptedthis time, it was my own mother at loggerheads with my grandmother. Their quarrels spilled through the terraced walls so often that neighbours would knock gently at our door, asking if we might lower our voices. Yet quiet never lingered for long in that household.
By the time I was preparing for my final exams at school, my grandmother too had gone. My mother refused to dress in black or show outward grief and, nine days following the funeral, conducted her own kind of revolutionshe bundled all of Grans possessions, without a second thought, and dumped them into the wheelie bin outside. My fathers face turned pale when he returned from work that day and saw his wifes disregard for what had belonged to his mother. That evening was filled with raised voicesa row that, in hindsight, marked the beginning of their end. Six months later, my father packed his suitcase and left.
When James and I married, our wedding was a simple affair, and we hadnt the means to find our own place. I knew, even before the vows, that Id be living in his mothers home. My mind reeled with memories of the shouting matches Id witnessed as a child, and I resolved not to repeat the past. If I couldnt be best of friends with my new mother-in-law, I was determinedat the very leastthat we should live without open conflict.
For nearly a year, I gathered every ounce of patience I could muster, never rising to her jibes or sarcastic remarks about my cleaning, cooking, or the way I hung the washing on the line. She never swore, but she wielded sarcasm like a true artist, forever reminding mein the most subtle waysof her superiority.
One afternoon, after another of her gentle but cutting life lessons, I decided enough was enough. I bought a Victoria sponge from the bakery, asked James to give us the parlour to ourselves, and shared with my mother-in-law a few family stories of wives and mothers-in-law clashing through generations. I suggested, earnestly, that we try not to fall into the same traps: we could at least behave like good neighbours beneath one roof.
She cut across me, pushed the cake aside, and said coldly, Theres only one lady of this house, and you know who that is. Ill decide how and when I speak to you. The best thing for you would be not to speak at all. Walk quietly, and make sure I dont see you.
When James walked in that evening, he looked at me for some glimmer of hope, but I could only shake my head silently. His mother, though, swept from the sitting room, calling out loudly, Well then, neighbouris your husbands supper ready?
Stung, I replied that with such treatment she neednt expect anyone to dish up her meals in her old age. It all unravelled from there. James tried to hush us, but after a year of swallowing my words, the dam broke.
To keep our marriage intact, we scraped together all we had and moved into a cramped rented flat, though money was dreadfully tight. In time, we got back on our feet. We even managed to take out a mortgage and buy a modest house of our own. Meanwhile, my mother-in-law grew gravely ill and needed daily care. Remembering the heartache of my childhood, I refused point blank to become her carer.
Instead, I suggested to James that he find a couple willing to look after her, in exchange for inheriting her flat in Norwich. He agreed, albeit reluctantly. For a while, we struggled to find anyone who could stick it out for more than a fortnight; no one could settle her, not even when we paid for a proper nurse. Over and over, the carers would leave, complaining she was impossible to please. Eventually, we found a couple who lasted a full two months, and we set down a formal arrangementnot only would they inherit the property, but they agreed to certain conditions on her care.
Looking back now, I dont believe I was at fault in my dealings with her. After all, it wasnt merely me; no one ever queued up for that house.
