**A Strange Getaway at My Mother-in-Law’s: Why I Won’t Go Back**
My mother-in-law—let’s call her Margaret—organised such a “holiday” that I’ll never set foot in her home again. Honestly, what’s the point of a break like that? She cooked all sorts of rural delicacies, while my kids and I survived on shop-bought ready meals or cheap café food. That visit was a real eye-opener for me.
**The Invitation: Expectations vs. Reality**
My husband—let’s say James—and I, along with our children, Emily and Oliver, decided to spend a week at his mum’s place in a quiet Cornish village. Margaret had been inviting us for ages, promising fresh air, home-cooked meals, and peace. James and I were thrilled—both exhausted from work, and the kids could do with some countryside time. I pictured a cosy cottage, hearty suppers, and woodland walks. Reality couldn’t have been more different.
When we arrived, Margaret greeted us warmly, but within an hour, I realised this wouldn’t be the relaxing break I’d imagined. The house was rundown, with worn-out furniture and creaky floorboards. The bathroom had only cold water, and the loo was out in the garden. I bit my tongue, but for the kids, used to city comforts, it was a shock.
**Culinary Surprises: Rural “Delicacies”**
Margaret prided herself on her cooking and announced she’d treat us to “proper countryside fare.” The first dinner was a stew with offal and a peculiar salad of pickled cabbage and wild herbs. The smell alone made Emily and Oliver refuse to touch it. To be polite, I forced down a few bites, but it was unbearably greasy and unfamiliar. James whispered, “Mum’s always cooked like this—just bear with it.”
The next day was worse. She served a potato-and-giblet hash. Oliver stared at his plate and asked, “Mum, is this intestines?” I nearly laughed but was horrified inside. Margaret scowled. “You city folk live on processed rubbish—this is proper food!” I stayed quiet but knew I had to save the kids. James and I sneaked to the village shop for frozen pasties and heated them secretly that evening.
**Life on Her Terms: Tension Rises**
Margaret had strict rules. She woke us at six, insisting, “Country folk don’t lie in.” The kids hated it—they usually slept till nine. Then she’d drag us all into the garden to weed or pick berries. I don’t mind chores, but Emily and Oliver wilted fast, prompting Margaret to grumble, “Soft city children—no stamina!”
Evenings were spent with her blaring outdated sitcoms, narrating every scene. When I asked her to turn it down so the kids could sleep, she snapped, “My house, my rules!” James tried to mediate, but I could tell he was embarrassed too. I felt like an unwanted guest, not someone there to relax.
**Escape to the Pub: Our Lifeline**
By day three, I cracked. The kids and I started sneaking to the village pub—nothing fancy, but they served decent fish and chips, beans on toast, and squash. Margaret noticed we weren’t eating her meals and took offence. “I slave away, and you’d rather eat pub grub!” I explained the kids weren’t used to her cooking, but she just waved me off. “You’ve spoiled them rotten!”
James backed me, gently, to spare her feelings. “Mum, they’ve got different tastes,” he said. But she kept muttering about “not appreciating tradition.” I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. This wasn’t a holiday—it was pure stress.
**The Breaking Point: Cutting It Short**
On day five, I told James, “This isn’t a break—it’s torture. I can’t do it.” He agreed his mum was overbearing but begged me to stick it out. I refused. We packed up and left a day early. Margaret was miffed, but I thanked her stiffly and promised we’d visit again—though I knew we wouldn’t.
Back home, I finally relaxed. The kids were thrilled to eat normal food and sleep in their own beds. James admitted he’d found her rules exhausting too but hadn’t wanted to hurt her. We agreed future visits would happen on neutral ground—maybe a café in town.
**Lessons Learned: Setting Boundaries**
That trip taught me that good intentions can backfire if you ignore each other’s needs. Margaret meant well, but her ways didn’t suit our family. I’ve learned to stand my ground—politeness shouldn’t mean misery.
Now, we’re planning a proper holiday—maybe by the sea, with decent meals and no 6 a.m. wake-up calls. As for Margaret? She’s welcome to visit us. But no offal stews—and definitely no “country rules.”
