You wont believe what a morning Ive had, love. Im sitting here in my flat in Manchester, still shaking my head about the whole thing with my motherinlaw.
Are you really going to be glad my mum eats your food? my husband muttered as we were leaving for work.
I was in the hallway, hands on my boots, when I saw the wardrobe door flung open. Did you wear my boots again? I shouted, my voice echoing off the walls. I asked you not to touch my things!
Sweetheart, whats the tone? Margaret, my motherinlaw, said, smoothing her scarf in front of the mirror. Its miserable out there, and Ive only got a pair of fancy shoes. Isnt that a shame?
Its not about whether its a shame, I snapped, crossing my arms and feeling my blood race. Its about respecting my space. I dont barge into your room or borrow your stuff without asking.
Margaret pursed her lips and gave me that royal stare Ive come to dread a slow, sideways glance with a tiny, condescending smile.
Were so delicate these days, she said sweetly. Back in my day eight people crammed into one room and nobody complained about personal space.
In your day maybe they didnt mind, I muttered, but we live in a different time now.
What are you whispering about? Margaret leaned in, pretending not to hear. Speak up, Im not getting any younger.
I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Living with my motherinlaw for the past three months has been a test of patience. We had to give up the little flat wed been renting because the mortgage on a new house kept getting pushed back, so now were squashed into Margarets twobedroom.
Im heading out to the shop to buy you a pair of rain boots, I forced a smile. So you dont have to suffer.
Oh, no need! she waved her hands. My shoe cupboard is bursting at the seams. Buy yourself a pair, then you wont be whining about me.
My own, I thought, as if that word mattered. My own boots, my own things. It felt like she was deciding who gets to share and who doesnt.
Fine, Margaret, I said. Ill be off to work now. Ive got a meeting later.
Again? she sighed. James will come home tired and hungry, and his wife will be nowhere to be found.
James can heat his own dinner, I replied, tossing my coat over my shoulder. Everythings ready in the fridge.
I stepped out into the crisp, damp spring air. The rain had stopped, but a slushy grey mess was stuck to my shoes. Yeah, she really does need those boots, I muttered as I walked to the bus stop.
At the office, the day dragged on. Im a graphic designer for a printing firm, usually nosedeep in work, but today my mind kept looping back to the morning drama, the missing packet of pricey tea, and the time Margaret accidentally shrank my favourite sweater in the wash.
You look frazzled today, my coworker Lucy said, sliding into the break room seat across from me. Motherinlaw again?
I forced a weak grin. You could say that.
Tell me, she said, patting my arm. Whats the latest?
Just the usual petty stuff, I waved my hand. Its adding up.
What about James?
Its complicated, I sighed. He loves his mum, I get that. He tries to stay neutral.
Neutral wont work forever, Lucy warned. One day youll have to pick a side, and youd better hope he picks yours, otherwise
Otherwise what? I lifted my chin. Im going to leave him because of my motherinlaw?
Its not the motherinlaw, its his stance, Lucy corrected. Believe me, Ive been there with my first husband.
I remembered a friend who had split after five years because her husband always took his mums side. Well get through this, I said firmly. The new house should be finished in a couple of months, and things will settle.
Lets hope, Lucy muttered, sighing.
That evening I decided to surprise James with the ingredients for his favourite carrot cakeSaturday, we could get up early and bake together. I was feeling hopeful again.
The flat was quiet, only the kitchen light on. I slipped off my shoes and walked in, stopping dead at the doorway. Margaret was at the table, happily tucking into the casserole Id made for breakfastenough for three.
Emma! she gasped, as startled as if Id appeared out of thin air. Back already? I thought youd be later.
The meeting got cancelled, I said, staring at the nearly empty casserole dish. Wheres James?
Hes out with his mates, said not to wait for him, Margaret tossed her hand away. I decided to have dinner. The supermarket chicken didnt look appetising, so I tried your casserole. Its delicious, by the way!
I placed the grocery bags on the table, a knot forming in my throat. Now Id have to get up an hour earlier to whip up a new breakfast, and Id been looking forward to sleeping in on Saturday.
Margaret, I started, trying to keep my voice level, that casserole was meant for breakfastfor everyone.
Oh, dear, Im so sorry! she flapped her hands, but there was no genuine remorse in her eyes. I thought it was just sitting there in the fridge. No worries, youll make something else tomorrow. Youre such a whiz in the kitchen!
I clenched my jaw. She knew exactly what that casserole was for; Id mentioned it just the night before when we were planning the weekend menu.
Alright, I said, standing up. Im going to change.
As I unpacked the bags, I realised I was missing the chocolate Id bought for the cake.
Margaret, I called out again, did you see the chocolate? It shouldve been in the bags.
She gave a guilty smile. Oops, Emma, I grabbed a piece for my tea. Thought you wouldnt notice.
That wasnt about the chocolate. It was about the constant, systematic invasion of my boundaries, the lack of any courtesy.
Okay, I replied briefly. Ill just buy more tomorrow. The shops just across the road.
She shrugged. No big deal.
I nodded, slipped back to my room, feeling a mix of hurt and anger, but I didnt want a fullblown argument. What would it change? Margaret would just carry on as if nothing was wrong.
James got home late, just as I was curled up with a book, trying to distract myself.
Hey, love, he said, leaning in for a kiss. How was your day?
Fine, I put the book down. And yours?
Great! Met the lads, had a few pints at the pub. Havent seen them in ages.
I hesitated, unsure whether to bring up the eaten casserole and the missing chocolate. I didnt want to seem petty.
Is your mum still up? James asked, pulling his sweater over his head.
Yeah, shes in her room, watching telly.
Ill pop in to say hi, he said, heading out.
From the hallway I could hear Margarets muffled chuckles. I wondered if shed told James the whole story or painted herself as the saint.
He was back about twenty minutes later, looking relaxed.
Guess what, he said, crawling under the blankets. Mum ate your casserole. Said it was fingerlicking good.
Yes, I know, I replied dryly. It was for breakfast.
And? he asked, turning to face me. Youll make something else. At least mum liked your cooking!
I stared at him. James, its not about the casserole. Its that your mum keeps taking my things without asking, eats food I set aside for special occasions, and never respects my opinion.
Oh, come off it, he waved a hand. Its just a casserole. She was hungry.
And the chocolate for your cake? She just ate it for tea.
What chocolate? he frowned.
I bought it for a surprise cake tomorrow. Your mum just snatched it.
What? Youre upset because she ate a piece of chocolate?
Its not the chocolate, I said, feeling tears prick my eyes. She does it on purpose, testing limits, showing whos really in charge here.
Youre overthinking everything, he snapped. Were a family, we share.
Sharing is fine, I said, but it should be consensual, not a freeforall.
He looked baffled. Youre serious? Youre counting every little thing? Splitting everything into mine and hers? Were supposed to be a team.
A team respects each others boundaries, I whispered. We ask before we take, we consider each others feelings.
He scoffed. You should be happy my mum likes your food! Thats a compliment, isnt it?
I stared at him, mouth open. A compliment? So if I cook dinner and your mum eats it while were out, thats a compliment? Not a sign of disrespect?
Stop dramatising! he snapped, pulling the blanket tighter. Im exhausted, had a rough day, and youre turning this into a big drama over a casserole!
He got up, flopped onto the sofa, and muttered, Im going to crash on the couch. Ive got an early start tomorrow. Goodnight.
I was left there, tears spilling down my cheeks, feeling crushed. Id hoped hed understand, that hed stand with me, but instead he chose his mums side without even trying.
The next morning I woke to the smell of pancakes. Margaret was bustling in the kitchen, and James was sitting at the table grinning like nothing had happened.
Morning, love, he said, as though the night before never existed. Mum decided to treat us. Have a seat.
I reluctantly sat. Margaret placed a plate of pancakes in front of me.
Eat, dear. Ive also made some scrambled eggs, Ill bring them over.
Thanks, I whispered, but Im just after a coffee, not hungry.
Youre not hungry? Ive made a feast! Youll hurt my feelings if you dont eat.
James watched me, his eyes waiting for a reaction. It was clear that refusing food would be taken as a challenge.
Fine, I said, taking a fork. Ill have a bite.
Good girl! Margaret cooed, patting my head like a child. Dont go getting too skinny, love.
James snorted but said nothing. I mechanically chewed the pancakes, thinking about how this place no longer felt like home.
When Margaret left for the shop later, I finally gathered the courage to talk to James.
James, we need to talk about your mum, I began, sitting opposite him on the sofa.
Again? he rolled his eyes. Everythings fine. She even made us breakfast.
Its a nice gesture, I agreed, but the issue is the lack of respect for my boundaries. I feel like a guest in my own flat, not a member of the family.
He sighed. Emma, my mums used to running the household. Itll take time for her to adjust. Just hang on, well move into the new place soon.
What will happen when we do? I asked quietly. Will she still pop over and start running the kitchen? Take my things without asking? Eat whatever Ive set aside for us?
He looked away. Shell visit now and then. Shes my mum, after all.
And you dont see a problem with that? I pressed. Im not against your mum, Im against the constant disregard for my space. Its wearing me down.
Youre making everything about yours and hers, James retorted. Were a family, we share.
Sharings fine, I said, but it should be mutual, not onesided.
We stared at each other, and it was clear James still didnt grasp the core of the issue. To him, mum always had a special status, beyond criticism or rules. To me, I needed that respect.
You know what, I said finally, Im going to spend the weekend at Lucys cottage. I need a breather.
What? Because of a casserole? he asked, eyebrows raised.
Its not about the casserole, I shook my head. Its about you not hearing me. I need time to think about us.
I got up, packed a bag, and headed to the bedroom. James stayed on the couch, staring at the empty space.
When I walked out with my suitcase, he asked, What should I tell mum?
The truth, I replied. That Ive gone to sort out our future. You should think about it too.
I stepped out into the chilly spring air, feeling oddly light. My phone buzzed with a text from Lucy confirming shed left a spare key with the neighbour. A quiet weekend alone with my thoughts was exactly what I needed. And when I get back, well have a proper talk about what a family really means respect, boundaries, and feeling truly at home, even over something as small as a breakfast casserole.
