I had no idea why my wife, Emily, was trembling at the mere mention of her mothers visit until she walked through the door and seized our lives.
When Margaret, Emilys mother, called to tell us shed be staying a few days, I felt Emilys shoulders tighten instantly.
It baffled me. Margaret lived alone in York and hardly ever made the trek to our quiet cottage by Windermere. I imagined a pleasant family weekend, a chance to catch up.
But as the day of her arrival drew nearer, Emily grew more and more tense.
Why are you so wound up? I tried to laugh it off. Shell be here a few days, enjoy our hospitality, see the kids it cant be that bad.
Emily gave me a weary, almost resigned look.
You dont know her like I do, she whispered.
I was convinced she was overreacting.
I could not have guessed what lay ahead.
The invasion
Margaret arrived with two massive suitcases, as if she intended to move in for the year. She didnt even pause to kiss us before stepping inside, scanning every room with a critics eye, like an inspector measuring up our standards.
At first everything seemed normal. She wrapped us in tight embraces, handed the children little presents, and placed a bag on the kitchen table brimming with homemade jam, biscuits and readymade pies.
I told myself Emily was worrying for nothing.
Then morning came.
And our home was no longer ours.
This is your coffee? How dreadful! How can you drink something so bitter? she declared, staring at me as I sipped from my mug.
I smiled, assuming she was joking.
She was far from done.
These curtains are hideous! They make the room look gloomy. They need replacing straight away.
Why have you put the sofa in this corner? It makes no sense! The whole layout must be rearranged.
You still dont know how to wash dishes properly? First rinse with hot water, then scrub, then rinse again!
Within hours she had taken command of every corner, upending our routines and imposing her own rules.
Emily stayed silent, but I could see the strain in her eyes as she fought the urge to speak.
Margaret wasnt finished.
Déjà vu
The scene reminded me unsettlingly of an episode a few months earlier with Emilys younger sister, Lucy.
Margaret had flown to Bristol to visit Lucy, promising to stay for two weeks. She left after only four days.
We wondered why. Lucy was always gentle, never complaining.
The answer emerged slowly.
In Bristol Margaret had acted exactly the same way: critiquing the childrens upbringing, rearranging the kitchen, dictating how Lucy should run her life.
Lucy couldnt stand it. She quietly packed a suitcase, bought a train ticket and saw Margaret off at the station without a word.
Now the pattern repeated.
Only this time we were trapped.
The point of no return
After four days the pressure became unbearable.
I came home from work to find Emily sitting at the kitchen table, eyes hollow.
I took the seat opposite her.
I cant take it any longer, she whispered.
That morning Margaret had crossed every line.
You dont even make a proper breakfast for your husband? Just cereal? Thats a childs meal!
You never call me! A daughter should look after her mother!
Actually, Ive been thinking why dont I move in with you? Im alone in York, youre my family after all
It was too much.
We realised that if we did nothing, she would never leave.
The next morning we summoned every ounce of courage and told her it was time to go.
She froze.
Oh, I see Im a nuisance. Youre kicking me out, just like Lucy did, isnt it?
We tried to explain that we simply needed our space, that we were exhausted.
She would hear none of it.
In silence she closed her suitcases and slipped out of the cottage without a goodbye.
The silence after the storm
When she was gone, an odd, almost surreal calm settled over the house.
Emily and I remained at the kitchen table, tea steaming between us, the shock of the past days still hanging heavy.
Do you think shell ever forgive us? Emily asked softly.
I exhaled, I have no idea.
For the first time in a week I felt a genuine sense of relief.
The endless circle
A week later Lucy called.
I cant believe you did that to Mum! she shouted, outrage clear in her voice.
Emily and I exchanged a lookpure, bitter irony.
When Margaret stayed with Lucy, she lasted no more than four days before Lucy sent her packing.
Now Lucy accused us of doing the very same thing.
We sat in stunned silence, each lost in thought.
Do all parents become like this as they agemore intrusive, more demanding, more oppressive?
And the most frightening question of all
Will we ever become like her?
