Oh, you won’t believe what’s been going on with my mother-in-law, Margaret Thompson. When she announced she was moving back to her mum’s place—my husband’s grandma, Agnes—in a little village and handing over her house to me and Richard, I nearly jumped for joy. A proper house of our own! Spacious, with a garden, a conservatory where we could raise the kids and have weekend barbecues—absolute dream, right? Richard and I were already planning how we’d decorate, paint the walls, and throw a housewarming party. But turns out, Margaret isn’t the type to sit still in the village—or anywhere, really. She keeps popping back, turning the place upside down, and I’m at my wit’s end. She’s lively, sure, but her constant visits are turning our dream home into a never-ending circus.
It all started six months ago. Margaret—who’s in her 60s, mind you—suddenly decided she wanted to be closer to her mum, Agnes, who’s 85. “I need to look after Mum,” she declared. “And you young ones could use the house.” We were over the moon. The place is solid, big, with a proper garden and even an old apple tree. We got straight to planning renovations, imagining a nursery for our son and a study for Richard. Margaret packed up her things, left us half the furniture, and moved to the village, about three hours away. I thought, “Brilliant, now we can finally settle.” Oh, how wrong I was.
Two weeks later, she was back on our doorstep. “Missed the city!” she announced, dragging a massive suitcase behind her. Like an idiot, I assumed it was just for the weekend. Nope—she stayed a month. In that time, she rearranged the entire living room because “the energy flows better this way,” repotted all my plants (“you’re watering them wrong”), and started cooking these intense meals that even Richard avoids. Her signature dish? A stew with so many onions it makes your eyes water just walking into the kitchen. I tried hinting that we had our own way of doing things, but she just waved me off. “Emily, love, you’re still learning how to run a proper home!”
Honestly, I snapped. “Margaret,” I said, “we’re grateful for the house, but this is our home now. Let us live our way.” And she just goes, “Oh, Emily, don’t fuss—I’m only trying to help!” Then she went back to the village. I thought that was the end of it. No such luck.
Since then, she’s been back constantly—no warning, sometimes for days, sometimes weeks. Every visit is chaos. She’ll decide the garden’s “a mess” and start digging up my roses because “they’re pointless.” Or she’ll deep-clean and bin my vintage magazines—which, by the way, were a proper collection. Once, she dragged in this ancient dresser from the village, calling it a “family heirloom,” and plonked it right in the middle of the lounge. Richard just laughs—“Mum, you’re like an interior designer!”—but I’m not laughing anymore. I’m at my limit.
The funny thing? Back in the village, Agnes is fine—fit as a fiddle, tending her veg patch, milking goats, gossiping with the neighbours. But Margaret claims it’s “boring” and that she “needs to check on us.” Check on us?! Don’t even get me started on her parenting “advice.” “Emily, you’re too soft—he should be helping round the house!” Meanwhile, she spoils our son rotten with sweets and lets him stay up watching cartoons till midnight. I don’t know how to make her understand this is our home now.
The other day, I finally cracked and talked to Richard. “Your mum’s driving me mad,” I said. “Can we ask her to visit less?” And he goes, “Em, she just wants to feel useful. Give her time—she’ll adjust to village life.” Adjust? I’m about to lose it! Now she’s announced she’s staying all 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 scruffy mutt she rescued in the village. “You need a companion!” Richard’s thrilled. I’m horrified. We’ve already got a “companion”—her!
I’m brainstorming solutions. Maybe sign her up for a hobby in town—knitting, salsa, anything to keep her busy. Or book her a seaside holiday? At this rate, I’ll be dreaming of moving abroad. (Kidding… mostly.) Richard promises he’ll talk to her, but I know he feels sorry for her. Meanwhile, I feel sorry for us—and our dream of a quiet, peaceful home.
Do other people have mothers-in-law like this? How do they cope? I’m ready to write a manual: *Surviving the Relentless Mother-in-Law*. For now, I’m just reminding myself this is our house, and Margaret’s just a guest. But if she actually brings that dog home? I might have to hide in the cellar till autumn.
