Why can your mother live with us, but mine can’t?!
I came home after a long day to find my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, unpacking her suitcase in the sitting room. I stood frozen, hardly believing my eyes. If this were a comedy, I might have laughed, but this was my life, and there was nothing amusing about it. As it turned out, she had decided to “stay with us for a couple of weeks” to “help” with the baby and the housekeeping—because, in her eyes, I was clearly failing at both.
Margaret was a formidable woman, but I had learned to overlook her quirks. What truly pushed me over the edge was my husband, Thomas. With all the solemnity of a man delivering profound wisdom, he said, “Why is it fine for your mother to stay here for weeks, but not mine?” I nearly choked on my indignation. My mother lived in another city, hundreds of miles from Manchester, and visited only twice a year. His mother? A mere ten-minute drive away in the next neighbourhood, popping in whenever she pleased.
Margaret had never held a job. She had a degree, but her husband, Edward, had been firm in his belief that a woman’s place was at home—by the stove, with children. She never argued. Her entire existence revolved around family—or rather, around Thomas, their only son. She had dreamed of a large brood, but after a difficult birth, she could bear no more children. Every last drop of her love had been poured into her boy. How he hadn’t drowned in her smothering affection was beyond me. Yet even now, with silver threading his hair, she still fussed over him like an infant.
Her intrusiveness had become the wedge driving Thomas and me apart. She insisted I kept house “all wrong,” that my career distracted me from family, that I neglected our son and husband. I refused to endure her endless advice and meddling. Thank heavens we owned our flat—thanks to my parents, who had helped with the deposit. We’d furnished it to our taste, decorated it ourselves, avoided the mortgage trap. Yet, as fate would have it, we had settled just a stone’s throw from Margaret. Coincidence? More like a curse.
At first, she visited daily. Even Thomas grew weary of her drop-ins, and Edward grumbled about coming home to no supper. Eventually, she limited herself to weekends. But after our son, Oliver, was born, it all began anew. From dawn till dusk, she was at our doorstep—washing nappies, stirring porridge, lecturing me on the “proper” way to swaddle a baby. I was at my wit’s end. Once, I didn’t answer the door—she flew into a rage, threatening to call the police! Thomas tried reasoning with her, but it never lasted more than a week before she resumed her “expert” critiques.
My mother, Eleanor Hartley, lived far away in Bristol and still worked. She visited twice a year and, naturally, stayed with us—why on earth would she book a hotel? Those were the days Margaret lost all composure, green with envy. “You’re all laughter and ease with your mother, but you act like mine’s a burden!” Thomas would snap, swayed by her complaints. I’d retort, “I see your mother nearly every day—mine visits twice a year! And she doesn’t meddle, unlike yours!” But he only sulked.
Margaret’s latest stunt left me speechless. I walked in to find her calmly hanging dresses in our wardrobe. Edward had gone fishing, she explained, so she’d seized the chance to “rescue” our household from my “chaos.” I nearly exploded. In the kitchen, my voice trembling with fury, I rounded on Thomas: “Have you lost your mind? What is this—some sort of ambush?”
He shrugged. “Mum just wants to help. What’s the harm?”
“I don’t want her help! She rearranges everything, dictates how we should live!” I hissed, my fists clenched.
“Your mother stays here, and I never say a word! Why can’t mine?” he shot back.
I snapped. “If she’s still here by morning, I’m taking Oliver to Bristol. And then I’ll file for divorce. I’ve had enough of this farce. Choose—her or me.”
Thomas stared at me as if I were a stranger. But I meant every word. I wouldn’t spend my life under Margaret’s suffocating “care.” If he wouldn’t set boundaries, I would walk away. This wasn’t a threat—it was my last resort.
