Strangers in Our Home: A Thank You to Mother-in-Law for Her Unwanted Guests
I perched on a stool in our tiny flat in Brighton, clutching a mug of lukewarm tea, fighting back tears of frustration. Four years married to Andrew, endless sacrifices to finally own our home, and now it felt like Grand Central Station thanks to his mother. The final straw was her mate, Linda, whom she’d practically foisted on us without so much as a by-your-leave.
Andrew and I came from the sticks—years of bouncing between dodgy rentals where the only reliable roommates were the mould patches. We pinched every penny to scrape together a mortgage deposit. Our parents weren’t exactly generous: my mum gifted us a blender for the wedding, and his mother, Margaret, handed over a toaster that gave up the ghost within a month.
Finally, we bought a one-bed flat. The renovation was a DIY nightmare—no cash for professionals. Andrew wallpapered at 2 a.m., I painted until my arms threatened mutiny. Family? We only saw them at Christmas. But the moment the place was halfway decent, Margaret announced:
*”You’ll have to host my friend Linda. I pulled strings to get her a spa break—she owes me. Show her the sights!”*
No asking, no discussion. Just assumed. So, while Margaret “cares for her health,” we’re meant to chauffeur a stranger around, burning time and money? I was fuming, but Andrew just shrugged—as usual.
We met Linda at the station. She was a piece of work—bossy, entitled, treating us like unpaid tour guides. We dragged her around Brighton’s landmarks while she demanded lattes, lunches, and endless photos. Andrew and I might as well have worn butler’s uniforms. I seethed but bit my tongue for his sake.
Then again, this wasn’t Margaret’s first offence. Last year, her younger brother, Simon, crashed with us for a month—ate us out of house and home, got plastered nightly, once swiped Andrew’s jacket, insisting he “needed it more.” The kicker? He demanded I find him a “posh bride” to avoid moving back to the countryside. I was gobsmacked, but Margaret just waved it off: *”Boys will be boys!”*
Linda left glowing, while I simmered in resentment. This wouldn’t be the end. Andrew couldn’t say no to his mum, even though she’d kicked him out at 17 with nothing but a backpack, screeching about “making his own way.” Now she played the saint, and he lapped it up.
I tried reasoning with him—*we’re a family now, we’re having a baby, strangers don’t belong here.* But he’d just stare blankly, like I was speaking Klingon.
*”Emily, Mum means well,”* he’d parrot, like a broken record.
*Means well?* Margaret treated us like a free B&B! She had her own two-bed flat—why not host her circus there? She hadn’t given us a quid toward our place but had no qualms trampling over it. Every fake smile of hers made my blood boil. To Andrew, she was doting; behind his back, she was a boundary bulldozer.
Eventually, I snapped. Linda had barely left when Margaret rang to “thank” us—and casually mentioned her cousin’s impending visit. I lost it:
*”Enough! This is our home, not Travelodge! If you’re so keen to help, host them yourself!”*
She scoffed: *”Ungrateful! After all I’ve done?”*
Andrew turned sheet-white. *”Em, why’d you shout at Mum? She’s just trying to help.”*
My heart sank. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see her manipulation, how she was eroding us. I wanted to protect our home, our future child, but how, when my husband was Team Margaret?
Now I’m stuck: keep quiet or draw a line. I dream of Margaret vanishing, of Andrew waking up to her games. But if I wage war, I might lose everything. How do I put my foot down without setting fire to my marriage?
