**Sorry, Mum: No More VisitsNot Today, Tomorrow, or Next Year**
“No, Mum. You wont be coming round anymore. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year.” A tale where patience finally snapped.
For ages, I wrestled with how to begin this story, but only two words kept surfacing*audacity* and *silent complicity*. One belonged to my mother-in-law, the other to my husband. And wedged between them? Me. A woman whod tried to be kind, polite, well-mannereduntil the day I realised that if I stayed silent any longer, our so-called “family home” would be nothing but a hollow husk.
I still cant fathom how someone could waltz into another persons house and take whatever they fancied, as if it were their own. But thats exactly what my mother-in-law didall for her golden child, my husbands sister.
Every visit ended with something vanishingthe roast from the fridge, an entire tray of lasagne fresh from the oven, even my brand-new curling wand, still in its box. “Charlottes hair is such a mess,” shed say, “and you barely go out anyway.”
I bit my tongue. Ground my teeth. Pleaded with my husband. Hed just sigh and say, “Thats Mum for youshe doesnt mean anything by it. Well replace it.”
Then came the final straw, just before our fifth anniversary. Wed planned something speciala proper date night at a posh restaurant, like we used to. Id chosen the perfect dress and splurged on a pair of stunning designer heels, the ones Id coveted since last summer. I left them boxed in the wardrobe, waiting for the big night.
Life, of course, had other ideas.
That evening, I was held up at work and asked my husband, William, to collect our daughter from nursery. He agreeduntil some “urgent” crisis arose, so he rang his mum. Handed her our keys to fetch little Sophie and wait at ours till I got back.
When I walked in, I went straight to the wardrobe. My heart sank. The shoebox was gone.
“William, where are my shoes?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“How should I know?” he muttered.
“Was your mum here?”
“Yeah, she picked up Sophie, stayed a bit, then left.”
“And the keys?” I kept my voice eerily calm.
“I gave them to her. What else could I do?”
I snatched my phone, dialled her number. She answered straight away.
“Good evening,” I said, frost creeping into my tone. “I expect you know why Im calling.”
“No, actually, I dont,” she replied, utterly unbothered.
“Where. Are. My. Shoes?”
“Oh, I gave them to Charlotte. Youve got far too many pairs, and shes got nothing for graduation.”
Then*click*. Dead air. No remorse, no apology. Just gone.
William, predictably, groaned. “Well get you another pair, darling. Dont make a scene. Shes my mum.”
I stood, took his arm, and marched him to Harrods. Straight to the display of the exact heels Id saved in my online cart for months. The price tag nearly made him faint.
“Eleanor, thats half my wages!” he spluttered.
“You said wed buy them. So we are,” I chirped.
And buy them he didsigning his own receipt for years of turning a blind eye.
But the farce wasnt over. On the way home, his phone buzzed. A text from Mum:
“Popping by tonight. Got sacks of runner beans cluttering my freezerIll stash them at yours and fetch them in a few weeks.”
I watched his face as he read it. Saw his jaw tighten. Then, for the first time ever, he rang her back and said, voice like steel:
“Mum, you wont be coming round. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Your last favour cost us a bloody fortune.”
He hung up. I looked at himand for the first time in years, I felt like we were truly a unit. A home where the door stays bolted to thieves but swings wide for those who know respect.
