Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She has her own house and is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but she managed to convince my husband that she needed his help. Something about being scared and lonely, so he rushed to bring her into our cramped two-bedroom flat.
Margaret Whitmore is a difficult woman. She craves attention at all costs, no matter how unreasonable. While her husband was alive, she never bothered us much. I was relieved—after all, in all our years of marriage, I’d never managed to get along with her.
*”Oh, darling, you should always freshen up before your husband gets home. Even at my age, I’d never let myself go like this. And really, you ought to take a cooking course—your mother clearly didn’t teach you how to properly roast beef.”*
That sort of thing was her specialty. In her eyes, she was flawless, while I was hopeless. Back when we only saw each other on holidays, I gritted my teeth and stayed quiet. But enduring her daily jabs became unbearable.
Her husband passed last year. We knew it was coming—he’d been battling cancer for years. After his death, Margaret was a ghost of herself. She stopped eating, barely spoke, just wandered the house in a daze. For the first month, we didn’t dare leave her alone.
Then, bit by bit, she snapped out of it. The old Margaret returned—snide, nitpicking, impossible. A sign she was back to normal, or so I thought. But my relief was short-lived. Soon, she was whispering in my husband’s ear about how hard it was to live alone.
*”I feel so lonely, so unwanted. It’s terrifying being in that big house by myself, and my heart keeps acting up. Maybe I could move in with you both?”*
My husband wasn’t thrilled, but he caved. The endless calls and dramatic tales of woe wore him down. I held my ground as long as I could—living with Margaret was the last thing I wanted. She even suggested we move into *her* place instead, since it was bigger. Nice try—I’d never be the mistress of that house. Besides, our flat’s in the city centre—easy to get to work and the park.
I knew better than to fall for her schemes. On her turf, she’d devour me whole. My husband tried to understand, but at the end of the day, *”Mum is Mum.”* He swore her stay would be temporary, promised to keep her in line and shield me from her jabs.
Six months later, our marriage is crumbling. I’m frayed at the edges, constantly on edge, running around after her like a maid.
*”Fetch my tea, take me for a walk, put the telly on… Oh, and while you’re at it, listen to how no one cares about me.”* And if I slip up? Instant heart attack—or at least an Oscar-worthy performance of one, followed by demands for an ambulance.
We planned a seaside holiday, but Margaret sobbed hysterically, claiming we were abandoning her. *”You must take me with you!”* A holiday with her? No way. My husband just shrugs, and I know my patience has run out. If she matters more than me, then we’re done.