If only I had known how things would turn out, I would never have agreed. But five years ago, when my husband Edward and I were looking for a flat, he insisted: “Let’s buy here, close to Mum. She’ll always be on hand to help or keep an eye on things. She’s an absolute gem.” We bought the place. She lives on the sixth floor; we’re on the third. Foolishly, I thought the closeness would be a blessing. Instead, it’s been nothing but trouble.
At first, it was quiet. My mother-in-law would pop round occasionally—to babysit or bring over a pie. I didn’t mind. In fact, I made an effort to be polite, grateful, even friendly. But soon, things spiralled out of control, especially when we started spending weekends at our cottage or out in the countryside. We left her a key—ostensibly to water the plants. Looking back, that was my gravest mistake.
The moment we’d step out, she’d let herself in. She wasn’t just tending to the flowers; she’d turn the place upside down. She barged into our private life without a second thought. I’d return home and wouldn’t recognise my own flat. Bed linens would be stuffed in a drawer with socks. Half my things would be piled on the floor with a note: “Bin these.” The rest would already be in the wash—even though my home was never untidy.
The kitchen was worse. She’d rearrange everything. Cups swapped places with saucepans. The salt cellar now held sugar. For days, I’d fumble about, muttering to myself. The worst, though, were my son’s toys. She deemed it necessary to “tidy” those too, dumping them all out, tossing half—”old, dusty, broken.” Never mind that my boy played with that tattered stuffed rabbit every night. Her word was final.
And my plants? The ones she was meant to care for? Either drowned or half-dead, stripped bare. “Just removing the sickly leaves,” she’d say. Then why were all of them in the bin?
Then there was my makeup. She didn’t just touch it—she used it! Perfume, creams, nail polish, even my nail file vanished into her handbag. As if it were communal. “It’s just lying about,” she’d reason. I started buying doubles of everything, or I’d have nothing left.
I tried talking to her. Pleading gently: “Please don’t move things. Just water the plants and that’s all.” But I’d either get silence or: “I only mean well.” The same every time. As if I were a guest in my own home.
I spoke to my husband. I cried, begged, explained. But Edward always took her side. “Mum’s got a weak heart. She mustn’t be upset. Be patient—she’s only trying to help.” Never mind my patience running thin. He thinks I’m nitpicking, that his mother’s just being kind.
I’m at my wits’ end. I’m seething inside. I don’t shout—it’s not in my nature. I refuse to stoop to rudeness. But bottling it up is unbearable. I fear one day I’ll snap. And then the fallout will be far worse—for our family, for everything.
I’m exhausted. Shaking with it. This isn’t a “gem” of a mother-in-law—it’s a controlling, meddling woman who won’t take a hint, and I can’t just say, “Get out,” because Edward wouldn’t understand. Because she’s *right there*. Because “it’s easier this way.”
But it’s not easier for me. I dread going home. Every time, I don’t know what I’ll find—or what I’ll lose.
What do I do? Keep enduring? Or, despite Edward’s protests, finally say, “Enough!” and take back what’s rightfully mine?