Guess what? We had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from treating our flat like her own.
My husband and I have been married a year now, and his mother still cant accept that he didnt follow the script shed written for him. Shed dreamt of him marrying some billionaires daughter, swimming in luxury and dragging her along into that gilded world. Where she got those ideas, Ill never know. Truth is, were just like any young couplestarted out tight on money, took out a loan, and now were living in my old studio while renting out our new place. Next goal? A car. Nothing extravagant, but were not starving either.
But she refuses to face reality, clinging to her delusions. Shes relentless, hell-bent on wrecking our marriageand shes creative about it. Lipstick smeared on my husbands shirts, his clothes reeking of womens perfume, condoms miraculously appearing in my handbag. Every time, it led to rows, suspicion, shouting matches. Thankfully, we always figured out the game, but the damage lingered.
Recently, my husband had to leave for a few monthsManchester, for a new branch launch. A career opportunity, so we agreed. He went, I stayed, and everything was fine.
Until I started noticing odd things. Objects moved. Cupboards rummaged through. At first, I thought hed popped back for somethingit wasnt far. I called him. He was baffled, swore he hadnt been home. An hour later, he rang back, voice grim. His mother. Before leaving, hed given her our keys just in case and forgotten to take them back.
The next day, I took leave and had the locks changed. Made it clear to my husbandif he handed out our keys again, hed be sleeping on the landing. That night, everything stayed put. So it was her. I searched the flat andthere it was. A tiny camera tucked on top of a shelf.
I called my husband straight away. Silence. Then he laugheda twisted, disbelieving sound. I checked the rest of the place. Nothing else, thank God. No drama, he said. Wait till he got back to handle it himself.
And then? Next day, my mother-in-law calls. Mustve realised her keys didnt work. Wanted to pop round for tea. I lied, said I wasnt home but wed sort something soon. Half an hour later, my husband textsshes whinged to him about me gallivanting God knows where while the house stood empty.
We laughed about it. Started betting on her next excuse to get in. She didnt disappointdaily calls about misdelivered parcels, forgotten glasses, or just dropping off pastries.
When my husband returned, she announced she was visiting. We were ready. She waltzed in with a bag of croissants, pretended to wash her handsthen bolted straight for the bedroom. We followed, of course. Caught her rooting through the wardrobe. She stammered when she saw us. My husband pulled the camera from his pocket, held it up.
Thats when it all went south. She screamed, accused me of cheating, lying, called him gullible. Full performancetears, fake heart attack, the works. Finally, she stormed out, slamming the door like some wronged martyr.
Honestly? I nearly applauded. That level of drama, unrehearsed. But its just one battle. The war isnt over. Still, this time, we didnt back down. Made it clearour family isnt her stage for absurdity.
