The intrusive mother-in-law barged in as if she owned the placeuntil I gave her a taste of her own medicine.
Sometimes, the enemy in your home isnt a stranger but a mother-in-law with a saccharine smile and a Tupperware full of questionable 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 little too often. She dropped by so frequently even the postman made fewer appearances.
I was sorting groceries in the kitchen cupboard when suddenlythe doorbell rang. I opened it. Of course. Who else? Margaret, my mother-in-law.
“Emily, love, Ive made you some meatballs! Haddock! Fresh today!” She beamed, thrusting her plastic container at me.
I sighed. My husband and I had loathed fish since childhood. Id been force-fed it as a baby, and he, a fishermans son, had eaten so much he might as well have grown gills. Wed told her. Repeatedly. But Margaret carried on as if wed never spoken.
“Margaret, we dont eat fish You know that.”
“But you cant waste good food! Keep itsomeone else might fancy it!” she insisted.
But it wasnt just the wretched meatballs. She came round more and more. Unannounced. Uninvited. Shed march in like she owned the place and start her “inspections”:
“Oh, whats this cheese? Never tried itIll just pinch a bit. And some of that ham toobest stock up again. Oh, by the way, I brought fish! Sharing is caring!”
Each visit, her audacity grew. One day, she turned up with a friend. No call. No warning.
“We were at the chemistsfancied a warm-up. Fancy putting the kettle on?”
While I stood frozen in the doorway, she was already rummaging through the fridge, pulling out jam, cheese, biscuits, as her friend 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 stuffing our last pineapple under her coat. This wasnt help or kindnessit was a full-blown invasion.
So, I hatched a plan. Subtle but ruthless. The next day, I grabbed my friend Lucy, bought the spiciest vindaloo in town, and without warning, turned up at Margarets doorstep.
“Hello! We were just passingthought wed pop in! Brought you some currygo on, try it!” I grinned, shoving the takeaway into her hands.
Margaret paled. She despised curry. Once, shed tried a bite and since then called it “boiled socks in gravy.”
“Make yourselves comfylets see what goodies youve got,” I said, marching to her fridge.
Out came shepherds pie, coleslaw, a Victoria spongeall dumped on the table. Lucy was already in fits.
“Oh, Margaret, dont you mind? I brought curryfairs fair, isnt it?” I added with mock innocence.
Margaret stood rigid. Speechless. She understood. Understood how it felt to have someone invade your space.
I left, thanking her for her “lovely hospitality,” promising wed be back soon.
After that, everything changed. She calls before visiting now. Her drop-ins are rare, discreet. She even brings things we actually like. No more fish. Sometimes, you dont need an argumentjust a mirror held up.
