**”Sorry, Mum: No More Drop-InsNot Today, Tomorrow, or Next Year”**
I racked my brain for ages on how to begin this little saga, and every time, the same two words sprang to mind: *cheek* and *spinelessness*. One from my mother-in-law, the other from my husband. And wedged between them? Yours truly. A woman who prided herself on patience, good manners, and keeping the peaceuntil the day I realised that if I didnt speak up, our so-called “family home” would be nothing more than a glorified charity shop for my sister-in-law.
Ill never understand how someone can swan into another persons house and just *help themselves*, as if the contents were free samples at a supermarket. But thats precisely what my mother-in-law did. And all for the sake of her golden childmy husbands sister, *Emily*.
Every visit ended with something mysteriously vanishingthe last of the Sunday roast from the fridge, an entire tray of lasagne Id just baked, and once, even my brand-new curling wand disappeared. I hadnt even unboxed it! But according to her, *”Emilys hair is a right mess, and you hardly go out, do you?”*
I gritted my teeth. Bit my tongue. Pleaded with my husband, *James*. Hed just roll his eyes and mutter, *”Thats just Mumshe doesnt think. Well replace it.”*
But the last straw came just before our fifth anniversary. Wed planned something posha proper evening out at a nice restaurant, like we used to. Id even bought a stunning dress and splurged on the perfect pair of heels to match. *Proper* designer ones, the sort Id been lusting after since last summer. I left them, boxed and pristine, in the wardrobe, waiting for the big night.
Life, of course, had other ideas.
That afternoon, I got held up at work and asked James to fetch our daughter, *Sophie*, from nursery. He agreedthen, naturally, something *”urgent”* came up, so he rang his mum. Handed her our keys so she could collect little Sophie and wait at ours till I got back.
When I walked in, I headed straight to the bedroom. My heart sank. The shoebox was gone.
*”James, where are my new shoes?”* I asked, already knowing the answer.
*”How should I know?”* He shrugged.
*”Was your mum here?”*
*”Yeah, she picked up Sophie, had a cuppa, then left.”*
*”And the keys?”* I kept my voice dangerously calm.
*”I gave them to her. What was I supposed to do?”*
I snatched up my phone and dialled her number. She answered immediately.
*”Evening,”* I said, sweet as arsenic. *”I think you know why Im calling.”*
*”No, actually, I dont,”* she replied, without a flicker of remorse.
*”Where. Are. My. Shoes?”*
*”Oh, I gave them to Emily. Youve got enough pairs, and shes got nothing decent for her graduation.”*
Then*click*. Dead air. No apology, no guilt. Just gone.
James, predictably, sighed. *”Well get you another pair, love. Dont make a scene. Shes my mum.”*
I stood up, took his arm, and steered him straight to the department store. Right to the display of the exact designer heels Id been ogling online. The price tag nearly knocked him sideways.
*”Charlotte, thats half my wages!”* he choked.
*”You said wed replace them. So we are,”* I replied, all sugar and spice.
And replace them he didsigning his own receipt for years of playing the doormat.
But the drama wasnt over. On the way home, his phone buzzed. A text from Mum:
*”Dropping by tonight. Got bags of veg cluttering up my freezerIll stash them at yours and fetch them next month.”*
I watched his face as he read it. Saw his jaw set. Then, for the first time *ever*, he rang her back and said, sharp as a knife:
*”Mum, you wont be dropping by. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Because your last *favour* cost us a small fortune.”*
He hung up. I looked at himand for the first time in years, I felt like we were finally a proper team. A home where the door stays firmly shut to freeloaders but swings wide open for those who actually *respect* it.
