Well, would you believe it? We had to change the locks just to keep my mother-in-law from treating our flat like her own.
My husband and I have been married a year now, and ever since, his mother has struggled to accept that he made a choice which didnt fit her grand plan. You see, shed dreamed of him marrying some billionaires daughter, so hed live in luxury and whisk her along into that gilded world. Where she got such notions, Ill never know. Truth is, were just ordinary folktightened our belts at first, took out a loan. Now we live in my studio while renting out our new flat. Next goals a car. The usual struggles of young couples, really. No extravagance, but were not starving either.
Yet she refuses to face reality, clinging stubbornly to her fantasies. She wont let up in her mission to wreck our marriage, and her methods? Downright inventive. Shed smear lipstick on my husbands shirts, leave his clothes reeking of womens perfume, and Id find condoms tucked in my handbag. Naturally, it led to rows, suspicion, blazing arguments. Thank goodness we always uncovered the trick, but the strain lingered.
Not long ago, my husband had to leave for a few monthssome town up northto set up a new branch for his work. A chance for his career, so we agreed. He went, I stayed, and all was well.
Until I began noticing odd thingsobjects moved, cupboards rifled through. At first, I thought my husband had popped back for something, as it wasnt far. I rang him he sounded baffled, swore he hadnt returned. An hour later, he called back, voice grim. He reckoned it was his mother. Before his trip, hed handed her our keys just in case and forgotten to take them back.
Next day, I took leave from work and had the locks changed straightaway. I warned my husbandif he ever gave our keys to anyone again, hed be sleeping on the doorstep. That evening, everything was untouched. So it had been her. I searched the cupboards andthere it wasa tiny camera tucked atop a shelf.
I rang my husband at once. Silence, then he burst out laughingutter madness. I checked the flat just in case, but thankfully, nothing else. No scene, no fusshe asked me to wait till he returned to handle it himself.
And guess what? The very next day, his mother called. Mustve realised her keys no longer worked, desperate to get in. Asked if I was home, just fancied popping round for tea. I said no, but wed have that cuppa soon enough. Half an hour later, my husband rangshed complained to him, wailing that I was off goodness-knows-where and the house stood empty.
We nearly laughed ourselves silly. Started placing bets on what excuse shed try next to waltz right in. She didnt disappointphoning daily with some new tale. A parcel delivered here by mistake, her spectacles left behind, or just bringing round some scones.
When my husband finally came home, she announced shed be visiting. We were ready. She turned up with a bag of pastries, pretended to wash her hands then bolted straight for the bedroom. We followed, of course. And there she was, rummaging through the wardrobe. She stammered when she saw us. My husband pulled the camera from his pocket and held it up.
Then all hell broke loose. She shrieked that I was cheating, lying to her son, that he was a fool. Even worked herself into tears, clutching her chest like she might collapse. In the end, she stormed out, door slamming behind her, the very picture of wounded pride.
Honestly, I nearly applauded. A performance like that, unrehearsed. But it was only a battle. The war isnt over. Still, this time, we stood firm. Made it clearour home isnt some stage for her absurd theatrics.
