“Why can’t my mum stay, but yours can?!”
I came home after a long day, and there she was—my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, unpacking her suitcase in the living room as if she owned the place. I froze, blinking hard, half-convinced it was a bad dream. If this were a sitcom, I might’ve laughed, but it was my life, and I was fresh out of patience. Apparently, she’d decided to “stay a fortnight” to “help” with the baby and the housework—because, in her eyes, I was clearly failing at both.
Margaret was… a force of nature. I’d learned to ignore her quirks, but my husband, Edward, pushed me over the edge. He strode in, dead serious, and said, “Your mum stays for weeks. Why can’t mine?” I nearly choked. My mother lived in Manchester, a three-hour train ride from London, and visited twice a year. His? A ten-minute drive away, popping in whenever she pleased.
Margaret had never worked a day in her life. She had a degree, but her husband—old-fashioned to the bone—believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, raising children. She never argued. Her world revolved around Edward, her only son. She’d dreamed of a big family, but after a difficult birth, there were no more babies. So she poured every drop of love into him. How he didn’t drown in it was a mystery. Even now, with grey in his hair, she coddled him like a toddler.
Her interference sparked endless fights. My housekeeping was “all wrong,” my job “neglected the family,” and I “didn’t dote on Edward and little Oliver enough.” I refused to tolerate her “suggestions” or let her rearrange my life. Thank God we owned our flat—my parents had helped with the deposit. We’d decorated it ourselves, no mortgage, no compromises. But fate had a cruel sense of humor: we’d ended up a stone’s throw from Margaret. Coincidence? More like a curse.
At first, she came daily. Edward grew as weary as I did, and even his father grumbled about cold suppers. So she scaled back to weekends. Then Oliver was born, and the invasion began anew. Dawn till dusk, she was there—”fixing” the laundry, “correcting” the porridge, lecturing me on swaddling. I snapped one day and didn’t answer the door. She threatened to call the police! Edward talked her down, but her restraint lasted a week before the “advice” started again.
My mum, Eleanor Hayes, lived miles away and still worked. She visited twice a year, and of course she stayed with us—why waste money on a hotel? Those days drove Margaret mad with jealousy. “You act like mates with your mum, but mine’s a burden!” Edward would say, parroting her complaints. I’d snap back, “I see mine twice a year! Yours is here every other day, meddling in everything!” But he’d just sulk.
Margaret’s latest stunt broke me. I walked in to find her hanging dresses in my wardrobe. Her husband was off fishing, so she’d seized the chance to “rescue” our home from my “chaos.” I stormed into the kitchen, where Edward stood, clueless. “Have you lost your mind? What’s she doing here?”
He shrugged. “She wants to help. What’s the harm?”
“I don’t want her help! She rearranges my life like it’s her hobby!” I hissed, fists tight.
“Your mum stays here, and I don’t complain. Why can’t mine?” he shot back.
That was it. “If she’s still here tomorrow, I’m taking Oliver to Manchester. And then I’ll file for divorce. I’m done with this circus. Choose: her or me.”
Edward stared like I’d stabbed him. But I meant it. I wouldn’t live under his mother’s smothering “care” anymore. If he wouldn’t stop her, I’d leave. Not a threat—a last, desperate cry.
