My mother-in-law treats us like chess pieces—one moment she pets us, the next she kicks us out. But we won’t return to her house. Never again.
When I married Andrew, I never imagined the biggest test of our marriage wouldn’t be money, domestic drudgery, or our own quarrels. No. The catastrophe was… his mother. A woman who should have been our support, a future grandmother, someone close. Instead, she became the reason for two chaotic moves, endless rows, tears, and one solemn vow: never again under her roof.
Andrew and I had been independent since our youth. I moved into student digs after school, then rented rooms, later a proper flat. He, after his stint in the army, lived alone too. We didn’t own a place, but we managed—paid rent on time, even saved up for our own.
When his father passed, Andrew’s mum, Margaret, seemed to lose her grip. Endless weeping, complaints, despair. We pitied her, naturally—grief is heavy. Then, for the first time, she asked us to move in.
*”I’m so lonely, darlings… The walls press in. The house is empty. You’d save on rent, save faster. We won’t step on each other’s toes. And I swear—I won’t mope around you.”*
Wary, we agreed. Three under one roof was hardly ideal, and inconvenient—far from work, too much furniture crammed in. Still, we hauled our things there, squeezed in, made do.
The first two months were tolerable. Margaret brightened—baked pies, cracked jokes. I let myself believe it might work. She even suggested we stay till we bought a place.
Then, the third month, the nightmare began.
*”Who left this mug here? I can’t stand it!”* she snapped.
*”You come home too late—I’m trying to sleep! So inconsiderate!”*
*”You invited yourselves—I never asked for this!”*
A month later, we were “asked” to leave. We packed in silence, hearts heavy. We never thought we’d return.
But history repeated itself. Six months on, Margaret was hospitalised—joint trouble. We visited, helped, tended to her. After discharge, the lamentations began again: *”I can’t manage alone—cooking, cleaning. Helpless, unwanted.”* Andrew visited more, and she nudged: *”Come live with me again. It’ll be cosy, proper, warm.”*
I resisted, but Andrew pleaded: *”She swore it’d be different now. Last time was grief, stress…”*
Back into boxes we went—moving, unpacking, the second attempt.
Margaret lasted four months. Then, the cycle resumed. First, *”You wipe the table wrong,”* then *”That’s the wrong pan,”* until finally, *”You’re in my way—get out.”* Unleashed, like a rabid dog. I didn’t argue—stood frozen, hollow. Andrew seethed. We left.
This time, for good. I didn’t speak to Margaret for nearly a year. Andrew did—brief, cold.
Then he slipped—mentioned my pregnancy.
Within a day, Margaret called: *”Move back in! The baby’s my flesh and blood! I’ll help—I miss you—it’ll be different!”*
We’d already decided: a mortgage. We had the deposit. Renting wasn’t failure. But a third round? Beyond my strength.
*”Andrew,”* I said, *”I won’t drag a child through her whims. She’s unsteady. No boundaries. I can’t risk that again.”*
He nodded—didn’t argue. For the first time. Because he knew: this was final.
Let Margaret live as she pleases. Sob, faint, ring up relatives, play the abandoned martyr. We chose stability, safety, respect. Our child will grow up where no one throws them out like rubbish in the night.
Never again. Not even if she begs on her knees.