It’s become almost a running joke in the family—how my mother-in-law douses herself in that same overpowering perfume. Except, for me, it’s not funny at all. Every time she visits, within ten minutes my throat feels scratchy, I get this pounding headache, and sometimes I even feel dizzy. I don’t know if it’s a legit allergy or what, but something about that scent knocks me flat.
I didn’t say anything at first. I figured maybe it was just me, and I didn’t want to come off as rude. But after the third or fourth time of having to excuse myself to lie down in our own house, I finally mentioned it to my husband. He said he’d talk to her, try to bring it up gently.
Well, he did. And guess how she took it? She laughed. Thought it was ridiculous. Said, “Oh, I’ve worn this perfume for years. No one’s ever complained before.” Then she made some comment about people being “too sensitive these days.”
Next time she came over? If anything, she smelled even stronger. Like she was making a point. I tried opening windows, lighting candles—nothing helped.
I finally told her directly. As politely as I could. I said, “I really think I’m reacting badly to your perfume. Could you maybe not wear it when you come over?” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “This is just how I am. I’m not changing for anyone.”
Now my husband’s stuck in the middle, and I’ve got another dinner with her tomorrow.
And last night, he asked me if maybe I could just “try to tough it out one more time.”
Let’s call my mother-in-law Brenda. I’ll never forget the first time we met: she gave me the warmest hug and said, “Welcome to the family!” But right away, I noticed that scent. It was sharp, flowery to an extreme, almost suffocating. I thought maybe she’d just had an “oops” moment with her perfume bottle that day. Turns out, that’s how she wears it on a normal basis—except now it feels like she’s wearing even more on purpose.
I’ve tried to handle this gently because I truly want to keep the peace. Brenda loves to drop by for Sunday dinners, and my husband, Marcus, is very close to his mom. She raised him alone after his father left, so I understand they have a strong bond. I love her for how hard she worked to give him a good life, but I wish she would understand that my reaction to her perfume isn’t personal. It’s physical—my head literally throbs when I smell it.
Anyway, I couldn’t sleep the night before the latest dinner. I was half-nervous about Brenda’s visit and half-resentful that Marcus kept saying, “Just tough it out.” When people say that, it usually means they haven’t experienced the severity of what you’re feeling. But I wanted to trust that maybe, just maybe, something would change this time around.
The next day, Brenda arrived right on time. I could smell her perfume the moment she rang the doorbell—like it wafted in through the crack around the door. She stepped inside, gave me her usual hug, and I instantly felt my sinuses tighten. I spent the first part of dinner gulping down water, desperately trying to ignore the prickly sensation creeping up the back of my throat.
Marcus sensed it too; he gave me a sympathetic glance over the appetizers. But I could tell he still hoped we could push past it. Brenda told her usual stories about her friends at church, the new neighbors, and some volunteer work she was doing, but all I could focus on was that headache building behind my eyes. The air felt thick. After about an hour, I finally stood up, mumbled something about needing fresh air, and walked out onto the back porch.
Marcus followed me out. I was a little lightheaded, but more than that, I was upset. “I don’t know how much more of this I can handle,” I told him.
He let out a tired sigh. “I tried, okay?” he said. “She just doesn’t think it’s a big deal.”
We went back in for dinner. Brenda seemed slightly annoyed at my brief disappearance and asked if everything was “all right.” I tried to keep things polite, but eventually the subject of the perfume came up again. Instead of ignoring it, I decided to be honest, politely but directly, one more time. I said, “Brenda, I really do get physically sick from your perfume. I’m not trying to change you, but I need some help here. Could we find a compromise? Maybe wear less of it or switch to a milder scent on the days you come over?”
Her response? She bristled. “This scent is special to me,” she declared, crossing her arms. “It’s the same one my mother used to wear, and she always told me it was her little signature. I’m carrying on the tradition.”
That was the first time she’d mentioned a sentimental attachment. Suddenly, I felt a twinge of guilt. Maybe I’d been so focused on my reaction that I hadn’t asked why she cared so much about this specific perfume. So I carefully asked, “Did your mother pass away recently?”
Brenda’s eyes flickered. “Several years back,” she replied. “But I still feel closer to her whenever I wear this. She wore it every day of her life.”
I could see the pain in her expression. We don’t talk much about her mother because Brenda doesn’t like to dwell on sad memories. But now it was out there. Her perfume wasn’t just perfume—it was a link to her late mom.
At that point, I softened. I told her, gently, “I understand the sentimental value, and I respect that. But I really do have a bad physical reaction. I want us to be able to spend time together. If we can find a middle ground, it would mean a lot to me.”
I expected her to snap back, but something in my voice must have resonated with her. She fell silent for a moment. Marcus cleared his throat and said, “Mom, maybe you could just use less? Like, a single spritz? I know you love it. But it’s messing with her health.”
Brenda pressed her lips together, clearly wrestling with her emotions. She eventually sighed and said, “I’ll think about it.”
It wasn’t an immediate victory, but it felt like a tiny shift. Dinner ended without any dramatic blowups. I still got a headache, but not as bad as usual, since I’d spent half of the evening near an open window. Later that night, while Marcus and I were cleaning up, I found a small bottle of unscented lotion in the kitchen—one of those travel-size freebies from a hotel. Brenda had brought it in, probably by accident. Or maybe it was a sign she was considering an alternative.
A couple weeks passed. We invited Brenda over for a movie night, and to my surprise, when she came in, I didn’t immediately cringe at the smell. Yes, she was wearing the perfume, but it was much fainter. I could actually breathe and hold a conversation without my throat closing up. I quickly realized that she’d used just a dab. During the movie, we all piled onto the couch with popcorn. I got through the entire evening without once needing to run for fresh air.
At one point, Brenda commented that she’d found a smaller bottle of her perfume that had a lighter formula—less concentrated. She admitted it felt strange at first, “like I wasn’t really wearing it,” but then she realized she could still smell a hint of that beloved scent whenever she moved. “It’s nice,” she said with a small smile, “not having to worry about giving someone a migraine.”
That moment was a breakthrough. Suddenly, I didn’t feel like the villain who had tried to rob her of a cherished memory. She saw that I truly wanted to appreciate her presence without the physical pain. We hugged at the end of the night—surprisingly, I barely noticed the perfume at all.
Here’s the twist I didn’t see coming: the reason she was so adamant about keeping the scent wasn’t just habit or stubbornness. It was a deep desire to feel connected to her late mother. Realizing that gave me a whole new perspective. It reminded me that we often have no clue what memories or emotions drive people’s behavior. And sometimes, a little compromise on both sides can lead to a closer relationship.
I still get a slight reaction if she puts on too much, but she’s a lot more mindful now. And in turn, I’ve been more understanding about why she loves it so much. We found a middle ground that works. And maybe that’s the biggest lesson: compassion doesn’t mean giving in to every demand, but it does mean trying to see where someone’s coming from.
In the end, I realized we need to speak up for ourselves without forgetting to listen to others. Sometimes when we think people are just being difficult, there’s a deeper story beneath the surface. Family life isn’t always easy. But learning to meet in the middle, even in small ways, can make all the difference.
If this story resonated with you or reminded you of something in your own life, please feel free to share it with your friends and family—maybe it’ll help someone out there struggling with a similar situation. And don’t forget to like this post to show your support. After all, we can all use a little extra understanding and kindness in our lives.