A Strange Holiday at the Mother-in-Law’s: Why I Won’t Go Back
My mother-in-law—let’s call her Margaret—gave us a “holiday” so dreadful, I’ll never set foot in her home again. Honestly, what kind of break was that? She cooked all these rustic “delicacies,” while my children and I survived on shop-bought ready meals or cheap café food. That visit taught me a hard lesson.
**The Invitation: Expectations vs. Reality**
My husband, let’s say James, and I, along with our kids—let’s name them Emily and Thomas—decided to spend a week at his mother’s cottage in a small village in the Cotswolds. Margaret had long promised us a true countryside escape: fresh air, home-cooked meals, peace and quiet. James and I were thrilled—we were exhausted from work, and the kids could benefit from some time in nature. I pictured a cosy cottage, hearty dinners, long walks through the fields. Reality, however, was nothing like the dream.
When we arrived, Margaret greeted us with a warm smile, but within an hour, I knew this wouldn’t be the relaxing getaway I’d imagined. The cottage was rundown, the furniture worn, the floors creaking underfoot. The bathroom had only cold running water, and the toilet was an outhouse. I bit my tongue, but for the kids, raised in city comfort, it was a shock.
**Culinary Horrors: Countryside “Delicacies”**
Margaret prided herself on her cooking and announced she’d be treating us to “proper country fare.” The first night, she served a stew made with offal and a strange salad of pickled cabbage and herbs. The smell alone made Emily and Tomas refuse to even try it. Not wanting to offend, I forced down a few bites, but the food was heavy, greasy, and utterly foreign. James murmured, “Mum’s always cooked like this. Just bear with it.”
The next day was worse. She dished up a pot-roast with what looked like chopped organs and potatoes. Thomas stared at his plate and whispered, “Mum, are those intestines?” I nearly laughed but was horrified instead. Margaret huffed, “You city folk live on processed rubbish. This is real food!” I stayed quiet but knew I had to save the kids. James and I sneaked to the village shop, buying frozen pasties and boiling them later when Margaret wasn’t looking.
**Living by Her Rules: Tension Rises**
Margaret ran the household with iron discipline. She woke us at six, declaring, “Country folk don’t lie in.” The kids were miserable—they were used to sleeping until nine. Then she put everyone to work in the garden—weeding, picking berries. I didn’t mind the labour, but Emily and Tomas quickly wilted, while Margaret muttered, “Soft city children. No stamina.”
Evenings were no escape. She blasted the telly, watching her soaps at full volume, narrating every scene. When I asked her to lower it so the kids could sleep, she snapped, “My house, my rules!” James tried to smooth things over, but I could see even he was uncomfortable. I felt like an unwelcome intruder, not a guest.
**Salvation at the Pub: Our Escape**
By day three, I broke. The kids and I started sneaking off to the village pub—nothing fancy, but at least the food was edible. Burgers, chips, apple juice—things they’d actually eat. Margaret noticed we weren’t touching her meals and took offence. “After all my effort, you’d rather eat greasy pub grub!” she fumed. I explained the kids weren’t used to her cooking, but she waved me off. “You’ve spoiled them rotten!”
James backed me up—gently, to spare her feelings. “Mum, they’re just not accustomed to it.” But Margaret wouldn’t relent, grumbling about “modern folk” not appreciating tradition. I bit my tongue, but inside, I was seething. This wasn’t a holiday—it was a nightmare.
**The Breaking Point: Cutting It Short**
On the fifth day, I finally told James, “This isn’t a break. It’s torture.” He agreed his mother had gone too far but begged me to stick it out. I refused. We packed our things and left a day early. Margaret was furious, but I thanked her stiffly for her “hospitality,” promising we’d return—knowing full well I’d never set foot there again.
Back home, I sighed with relief. The kids grinned over proper meals and their own beds. James admitted he’d found the trip exhausting too but hadn’t wanted to upset her. We agreed: next time, we’d meet her in London—neutral ground, in a café where the menu had chips.
**Lessons Learned: Setting Boundaries**
That trip proved good intentions mean nothing without respect for others’ comfort. Margaret wanted to give us a countryside escape, but her way was unbearable. I learned to stand my ground—politeness shouldn’t mean suffering.
Next year, we’re booking a proper holiday—somewhere with a beach, decent food, and no six a.m. wake-up calls. And Margaret? She can visit us—but her “traditional” cooking stays at home.
