The meddling mother-in-law barged in as if she owned the placeuntil I gave her a taste of her own medicine.
Sometimes, life ensures the enemy in your home isnt a stranger but a mother-in-law with a sweet smile and a Tupperware full of dodgy meatballs. My name is Emily, married for two years, and as they say, everything was fine between my husband and me until his mum started “warming our home” a bit too often. And with such persistence that even the postman visited less than she did.
I was sorting groceries in the kitchen cupboard whending-dongthe doorbell rang. I opened it. Of course, who else? Margaret, my mother-in-law.
“Emily, love, Ive made some meatballs! Monkfish! Fresh today!” she beamed, thrusting a plastic container at me.
I sighed. My husband and I have hated fish since we were kids. Me, I was force-fed it growing up, and him, a fishermans son, ate so much he nearly grew gills. Wed told her. Repeatedly. But Margaret acted as if it never happened.
“Margaret, we dont eat fish You know that.”
“But you cant waste good food! Keep itgive it to someone else!” shed say.
But it wasnt just those blasted meatballs. She came round more and more. No warning. No knock. Shed waltz in like she owned the place and start her “inspections”:
“Oh, whats this cheese? Never tried itIll have a slice. And some of that salami toobest fetch more next time. Oh, and I brought fishsharing is caring, you know!”
With every visit, her boldness grew. One day, she turned up with a friend. No call. No asking.
“We were just at the chemistsfancied warming up a bit. Put the kettle on, love?”
As I stood frozen in the doorway, she was already rummaging through the fridge, pulling out jam, cheese, biscuits, while her mate made herself at home at the table.
I felt like a stranger in my own house. My husband just shrugged”Its Mum, she means well.” Means well? Id caught her hiding our pineapple under her coat. This wasnt kindnessit was an outright invasion.
So, I devised a plan. Subtle but sharp. The next day, I roped in my friend Sophie, bought the spiciest sushi in town, and without warning, we marched to Margarets.
“Afternoon! We were nearby and thought wed pop in! Brought you sushigo on, try some!” I grinned, shoving the tray into her hands.
Margaret paled. She loathes sushi. Once, she tasted it and ever since called it “raw rats on rice.”
“Make yourselves comfylets see what youve got to nibble on,” I said, striding to her fridge. Out came couscous, a pasta salad, a Victoria spongeall dumped on the table. Sophie was already in stitches.
“Oh, Margaret, you dont mind, do you? I brought sushifairs fair, right?” I added, all fake innocence.
Margaret stood rooted. Speechless. She got it. Finally understood how it felt to have someone barge into *her* space.
I left, thanking her for her “lovely hospitality,” promising wed be back soon.
Since then? Everything changed. She calls before visiting now. Drops by rarely, quietly. Even brings things we actually like. No more fish.
Sometimes, you dont need an argument. Just hold up a mirror.
