**No, Mum. You Wont Be Coming Over Anymore**
Ive spent days turning this over in my mind, and the same two words keep surfacing: sheer audacity and quiet complicity. One from my mother-in-law, the other from my husband. And trapped between them? Me. A woman who prided herself on being kind, polite, and patientuntil the moment I realised that if I didnt speak up, our so-called family home would become nothing more than a hollow pretence.
I still cant fathom how someone can march into another persons house and help themselves as if its their own. Yet thats precisely what my mother-in-law did. All for the sake of her golden childmy husbands sister.
Every visit ended with something missingthe joint of beef from the freezer, a freshly baked cottage pie from the oven, even my brand-new curling wand, still in its box. Charlottes hair is such a mess, shed say, as if that justified it. You hardly go out anyway.
I swallowed my words. Gritted my teeth. Pleaded with my husband. Hed just sigh and say, Thats Mum for youshe doesnt mean anything by it. Well replace it.
But the last straw came just before our fifth anniversary. Wed booked a table at a posh restaurant in London, a proper night out like we used to have. Id found the perfect dress and treated myself to a pair of designer heels Id been saving for since last summer. I left them boxed in the wardrobe, waiting for the evening.
Life, of course, had other ideas.
That afternoon, I was held up at work and asked my husband, James, to collect our daughter from nursery. He agreedthen, as usual, something came up, so he rang his mum. Handed her our keys to fetch little Sophie and wait at ours till I returned.
When I got home, I went straight to the bedroom. My heart sank. The shoebox was gone.
James, where are my shoes? I asked, already knowing the answer.
No idea, he said, shrugging.
Was your mum here?
Yes, she picked up Sophie, stayed a while, then left.
And the keys? I kept my voice steady.
I gave them to her. What else could I do?
I snatched up my phone and dialled her number. She answered immediately.
Good evening, I said, my tone frosty. I think you know why Im calling.
No, I dont, actually, she replied, utterly unbothered.
Where. Are. My. Shoes?
Oh, I took them for Charlotte. Youve got plenty, and shes got nothing decent for her graduation.
Thenclick. Silence. Not a hint of remorse. Just gone.
James, predictably, groaned. Well get you another pair, love. Dont make a scene. Shes my mum.
I dragged him to Selfridges, straight to the display of the very same heels. The price made him blanch.
Eleanor, thats half my wages! he spluttered.
You said wed replace them. So we are, I replied brightly.
And replace them he didsigning his own receipt for years of turning a blind eye.
But it wasnt over. On the drive home, his phone buzzed. A text from Mum:
Dropping by tonight. Need to store some veg in your freezerIll fetch it in a few weeks.
I watched his face as he read it. The way his jaw set. Then, for the first time ever, he called her back and said, firm as iron:
Mum, you wont be coming over. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Because your last favour cost us more than we could afford.
He hung up. I looked at himand for the first time in years, I felt like we were truly united. A home where the door stays shut to those who take, but opens wide for those who belong.
