**Diary Entry**
When my mother-in-law, Margaret Elizabeth, announced she was moving in with her mum, Granny Beatrice, in the countryside and giving her house to me and Andrew, I nearly leapt for joy. Our own house! Spacious, with a garden, a patio where we could raise our children and host weekend barbecues—it was a dream come true! We’d already pictured ourselves decorating the rooms, painting the walls, and inviting friends over for a housewarming. But as it turned out, Margaret Elizabeth had no intention of sitting still, whether in the countryside or anywhere else. She keeps popping back, turning our lives upside down, and I’m at my wit’s end trying to manage this whirlwind. She’s energetic, I’ll give her that, but her habits and constant visits have turned our dream into some sort of never-ending circus.
It all started six months ago. Margaret, who’s in her sixties, suddenly decided she wanted to be closer to Granny Beatrice, who’s pushing ninety. “I need to help Mum out,” she declared. “And you young ones will make better use of the house.” Andrew and I were over the moon. The house was solid, with a proper garden and even an old apple tree. We began planning renovations immediately, imagining a nursery for our son and a study for Andrew. Margaret packed up, left half the furniture behind, and moved to the village, a three-hour drive away. I remember thinking, *Now we can finally breathe!* How wrong I was.
Two weeks later, she was back on our doorstep. “I missed the city!” she announced, hauling in a massive suitcase. Foolishly, I assumed it was just for the weekend. But no—she stayed a whole month. In that time, she rearranged the living room furniture (“better for the energy flow”), repotted my plants (“you’re watering them wrong”), and took over the kitchen, churning out meals so packed with onions that Andrew started avoiding dinner altogether. I tried hinting that we had our own routines, but she just waved me off. “Emma, you’re still learning how to run a proper household!”
Eventually, I snapped. “Margaret,” I said, “we’re grateful for the house, but this is *our* home now. Let us live our way.” She just sighed. “Oh, Emma, stop fussing! I’m only trying to help!” Then she left—only to return again and again, unannounced, sometimes for days, sometimes weeks. Each visit is a hurricane. She decides the garden is “neglected” and digs up my roses because they’re “useless.” She launches into deep cleaning, tossing out magazines I’d been collecting. Once, she dragged in an antique dresser from the village—a “family heirloom”—plonking it right in the middle of our lounge. Andrew just laughs. “Mum, you’re like an interior designer!” I’m not laughing anymore. I’m fraying at the edges.
The irony? Granny Beatrice is perfectly fine—tending her veg patch, milking the goats, gossiping with neighbours. But Margaret insists she’s “bored” and “needs to check on us.” *Check on us!* Never mind how she micromanages our son. “Emma, you’re too soft—he should be helping more!” she scolds, then spoils him with sweets and lets him watch telly till midnight. I don’t know how to make her understand this is *our* home.
The other day, I finally confronted Andrew. “Your mum’s driving me mad,” I said. “Can we ask her to visit less?” He just shrugged. “Emma, she means well. Give her time to settle in.” *Time?* I’m at breaking point! Now she’s talking about 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 mongrel she rescued in the village. “You need a companion!” she declared. Andrew’s thrilled; I’m horrified. We’ve already got one too many “companions” in the form of Margaret.
I’m scrambling for solutions. Maybe enrol her in a city hobby group? Knitting, ballroom dancing—anything to keep her busy. Or book her a seaside holiday? At this rate, *I’ll* be the one needing a getaway. (Joking… mostly.) Andrew’s promised to talk to her, but I know he’ll cave. Meanwhile, I’m clinging to the idea that this house is *ours*, and Margaret is just a guest. But if she really brings that dog home, I might start packing my bags. Or at least hide in the cellar till autumn.
Do other people have mothers-in-law like this? How do they cope? I’m halfway to writing a manual: *Surviving the Relentless Mother-in-Law.* For now, I’m taking deep breaths and repeating: *This is our home. This is our home.* But if she unpacks another “heirloom” in my kitchen, I might just scream.
