**Why Can’t My Mother Live Here Too?!**
I walk through the front door after a long day, only to find my mother-in-law, Margaret Harrington, unpacking her suitcase in the living room. I freeze, unable to believe my eyes. If this were a sitcom, I might laugh, but it’s my life, and I’m not amused. Apparently, she’s decided to “stay for a fortnight” to “help” with the baby and housework—because, in her eyes, I’m clearly not managing well enough.
Margaret is a force of nature, but I’ve learned to ignore most of her quirks. What pushed me over the edge was my husband, James. He walks up with that infuriatingly calm expression and says, “Why is it fine for your mum to stay for weeks, but not mine?” I nearly choke on my indignation. My mum lives miles away, hundreds of miles from Manchester, and visits maybe twice a year. His mother? She’s a ten-minute drive down the road in the next neighbourhood and drops by whenever she pleases!
Margaret never had a career. She’s got a degree, but her husband—my father-in-law—believed a woman’s place was at home, cooking and raising children. She never argued. Her whole world revolved around family, or rather, around James, their only son. She’d dreamt of a big family, but after a difficult birth, she couldn’t have more children. Every ounce of her love poured into James. How he didn’t drown in her smothering affection is beyond me. Even now, with grey in his hair, she still babies him like he’s a toddler.
Her interference has become a constant source of arguments between us. She insists I don’t run the house “properly,” that my job distracts me from family, that I don’t pay enough attention to our son or James. I refuse to tolerate her endless meddling and her need to redo everything her way. Thank goodness we own our flat—my parents helped with the deposit. We furnished it just how we liked, renovated it, and managed without a mortgage. But, as luck would have it, we ended up just around the corner from Margaret. Coincidence? More like a curse.
At first, she came every single day. James got just as sick of it as I did, and even my father-in-law grumbled about coming home to no dinner. Eventually, she limited herself to weekends. But when our son, Oliver, was born, it all started again. From dawn till dusk, she was there—washing nappies, making porridge, lecturing me on the “right” way to swaddle. I was at my breaking point. Once, I didn’t answer the door—she threw a fit and threatened to call the police! James tried talking to her, but it only lasted a week before she was back with her “expert” opinions.
My mum, Catherine Bennett, lives all the way in Bristol and still works full-time. She visits every six months, and of course she stays with us—it’s not like she’d book a hotel! Those visits drive Margaret mad with jealousy. “You act like your mum’s a guest, not mine!” James snapped once, feeding off her complaints. I tried explaining—*“I see your mum almost daily. Mine’s here twice a year! And she doesn’t meddle like yours does!”* But he just sulked.
Margaret’s latest stunt was the final straw. I come home to find her calmly hanging her dresses in our wardrobe. Turns out, my father-in-law’s gone fishing, so she’s “taking the opportunity” to “save” our family from my “chaos.” I nearly explode. In the kitchen, fists clenched, I hiss at James, *“Are you serious? What is this?”*
He shrugs. *“Mum just wants to help. What’s the harm?”*
*“I don’t want her help! She rearranges everything, criticises how I live!”*
*“Your mum stays here, and I don’t complain. Why can’t mine?”* he snaps back.
I’ve had enough. *“If she’s still here tomorrow morning, I’m taking Oliver to Bristol. And then I’ll file for divorce. I’m done with this circus. Choose—me or her.”*
James stares at me like I’m the villain. But I’m not bluffing. I won’t live under his mother’s thumb anymore, suffocated by her “care.” If he doesn’t put his foot down, I’m gone. This isn’t a threat—it’s my last shred of sanity screaming for air.
