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 for a year now, and his mother still hasnt accepted that he made a choice that doesnt fit her grand plan. See, she dreamed of marrying him off to some billionaires daughter so hed live in luxury and drag her along into that golden world. Where she got these ideas, Ive no clue. Truth is, were just ordinarytightened our belts at first, took out a loan, and now we live in my studio while renting out our new place. Next goal? A car. Just your average young coupleno extravagance, but were not starving either.
But she refuses reality, clinging to her fantasies. She wont let up, trying to wreck our marriage in the most creative ways. Lipstick smeared on my husbands shirts, his clothes reeking of womens perfume, even condoms planted in my handbag. Of course, it led to rows, suspicion, shouting matches. Thankfully, we always caught on, but it left its mark.
A while back, my husband had to leave for a few monthsManchester, for a new branch launch. A career boost, so we agreed. He went, I stayed, all fine at first.
Then things got odd. Objects moved, cupboards rummaged through. At first, I thought hed popped back for somethingits not far. I rang him baffled, he swore he hadnt been near the place. An hour later, he called back, voice grim. His mum, he reckoned. Before the trip, hed handed her our keys just in case and forgot to take them back.
Next day, I took leave and had the locks changed straight off. Told my husband bluntlyif he hands our keys to anyone again, hes sleeping on the landing. That evening, everything was untouched. So it was her. I checked the cupboards andbingoa tiny camera tucked on a top shelf.
Rang my husband immediately. Silence, then he burst out laughingabsolute madness. I scoured the flat, but thankfully, nothing else. No drama, he asked me to wait till he got back to handle it himself.
And then? Next day, she calls. Mustve realised her keys didnt work, wanting in. Asked if I was home, fancy a quick cuppa? Said no, but wed catch up soon. Half an hour later, my husband textsshes whinged to him about me gallivanting while the house stood empty.
We nearly laughed it off, even started betting on her next excuse to drop by. She didnt disappointdaily calls about a misdelivered parcel, glasses left behind, or just bringing round some scones.
When my husband returned, she announced shed pop in for a visit. We were ready. She waltzed in with a bag of scones, pretended to wash her hands then bolted straight to the bedroom. We followed, of course. Caught her red-handed, rifling through the wardrobe. She stammered when we walked in. 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 gullible. Even pulled the whole weeping, clutching-her-chest act. Stormed out in the end, slamming the door like some wronged martyr.
Honestly, I nearly applauded. Performance like that, no rehearsal. But its just one battle. The wars not over. Still, this time, we didnt budge. Made it clearour family isnt some absurdist theatre.
