I thought our marriage was unshakable: twelve years together, two children, a cozy home in the outskirts of Manchester. But everything shifted when my mother-in-law moved closer. Now her shadow looms over our union, poisoning every day. She walks into our house and dictates how we should live, and instead of defending me, my husband nods along. This is the story of how one woman is tearing apart our family—and my fight to be heard.
Tom and I have been together twelve years. We have two children, Lily and Alfie, and until recently, I believed we were happy. His mother, Margaret, used to live in another town, hundreds of miles away. We saw her rarely, just a couple of times a year, and that suited us all. But last year, considering her age and loneliness, Tom and I agreed it would be best if she sold her flat and moved closer. We helped her buy a place in Manchester. At the time, I thought it was the right thing to do. How wrong I was.
Margaret never interfered before. I barely noticed her presence. But now that she’s only half an hour away, she’s lost all restraint. Her visits have become a daily nightmare. She waltzes in and lectures me—how to cook, how to clean, how to iron Tom’s shirts. Nothing I do meets her standards. Every little thing—from the soup I serve to how I raise the kids—draws her disapproval. She even critiques my wardrobe, tutting that I dress “too young for my age.”
One afternoon, she dropped by unannounced. I’d made a roast, and Tom sat with her while I slipped away to tidy the nursery, just to escape her comments. But even through the wall, I heard them discussing my cooking. When I returned, Tom scowled.
“Could’ve made a proper roast, couldn’t you? Hardly any gravy. Might’ve asked Mum to teach you.”
Margaret sat there, smug, nodding along. I walked out without a word, slamming the door. My blood boiled. Aren’t my days busy enough without being told I’m not good enough? This wasn’t the first time her words drove a wedge between me and my husband.
I don’t understand why she does it. Does she *want* to break us? Her nitpicking poisons everything. Because of her, Tom and I argue nearly every day. I’ve even started thinking of divorce—something I never imagined before. When Margaret lived far away, Tom was content: my cooking, the house, our routine. Now, nothing’s right. He comes back from her place and starts in on me—saying I didn’t stack the dishwasher right, that I’m too soft on the kids.
I swear she turns him against me. After every visit, he’s different—snippy, impossible to please. He forgets we’re a family, that I bend over backwards for him and the children. Why does she do this? To ruin us? *Why?* Tom and I aren’t exactly young enough to start over. But her interference makes life unbearable.
When she was distant, everything was different. Tom appreciated me, our family, our home. Now? He’s under her spell. I’ve tried talking to him, but he brushes me off. “Mum just wants to help.” *Help?* Her “help” is wrecking everything we’ve built.
I’m tired of biting my tongue. Her words are needles, pricking at my heart. I don’t deserve this in my own home. I’m 38, with two kids, trying my best—yet she makes me feel worthless. I need to talk to Tom, make him see she’s gone too far. He’s a grown man, forty years old—he should think for himself, not parrot his mother.
But how? If he sides with her, our marriage might not survive. I don’t want to lose us, but I can’t live like this—always judged, always falling short. I deserve respect. My home should be my refuge, not a place where I’m picked apart. I want the life we had—when Tom and I were happy, and his mother was just a visitor, not a tyrant ruling our lives.
