“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 Anne, unpacking her suitcase in the living room. I froze, hardly believing my eyes. If this were a comedy, I might have laughed, but this was my life, and I was in no mood for jokes. Apparently, she had decided to “stay with us for a fortnight” to “help” with the child and the housekeeping—because, in her eyes, I wasn’t managing well enough.
Margaret was a woman of strong opinions, but I had learned to overlook her peculiar ways. Yet it was my husband, Edward, who truly tested my patience. He approached me with a stern expression and said, “Why is it fine for your mother to live with us for weeks, but not mine?” I nearly choked on my indignation. My mother lived miles away, hundreds of miles from London, and visited only twice a year. His mother? A mere ten-minute drive away, popping in whenever she pleased!
Margaret had never worked a day in her life. She had a diploma, but her husband, my father-in-law, firmly believed a woman’s place was at home, by the stove, with the children. She never argued. Her world revolved around her family—or, rather, around Edward, their only son. She had dreamed of a large family, but after a difficult birth, she could bear no more children. Every ounce of her love was poured into her boy. How he hadn’t drowned in her smothering affection was a mystery. Yet even now, with silver threading his hair, she still fussed over him as if he were an infant.
Her meddling sparked endless arguments between Edward and me. She insisted I kept house “wrong,” that my job distracted me from my family, that I neglected our son and my husband. I refused to endure her constant criticisms and attempts to rearrange our lives. Thankfully, we had our own flat—thanks to my parents, who had helped with the costs. We’d furnished it to our taste, redecorated without a mortgage. But fate, it seemed, had cursed us: we lived just down the road from Margaret. Coincidence? More like misfortune.
At first, she visited daily. Edward grew as weary of her as I did, and even my father-in-law grumbled about missing his supper. So she limited herself to weekends. But after our son, Thomas, was born, the intrusions began anew. From dawn till dusk, she was there—washing nappies, stirring porridge, lecturing me on the “proper” way to swaddle. I was at my wits’ end. Once, I didn’t answer the door—and she flew into a rage, threatening to call the police! Edward tried reasoning with her, but her restraint lasted only a week before her “expert” opinions returned.
My mother, Elizabeth Mary, lived far away, in Manchester, and still worked. She visited twice a year and, naturally, stayed with us—we wouldn’t make her book a hotel! Those were the days Margaret lost her mind with jealousy. “You treat your mother like a friend, but mine you barely tolerate!” Edward would scold, swayed by her complaints. I tried explaining: “I see my mother twice a year, and yours nearly every day! And mine doesn’t interfere—unlike yours!” But he only sulked.
Margaret’s latest stunt stunned me. I came home to find her calmly hanging her dresses in our wardrobe. Turns out, my father-in-law had gone fishing, and she had seized the moment to “rescue” our family from my “chaos.” I nearly exploded. In the kitchen, barely containing my fury, I rounded on Edward: “Are you mad? What is this nonsense?”
He shrugged. “Mum wants to help. What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t want her help! She pokes into everything, rearranges our things, tells me how to live!” I hissed, fists clenched.
“Your mother stays here, and I say nothing! Why can’t mine?” he snapped.
I’d had enough. “If she’s still here by morning, I’m taking Thomas to Manchester. After that, I’ll file for divorce. I’m done with this circus. Choose: me or her.”
Edward stared at me as though I were the enemy. But I wasn’t joking. I couldn’t live under his mother’s suffocating grip any longer. If he wouldn’t set boundaries, I’d leave. It wasn’t a threat—it was my heart’s last cry.
