My mother-in-law decided she was going to impose her rules in MY house. I made it very clear to her: I’m the one in charge here.
It turns out I had to host my mother-in-law in my apartment. I wasn’t exactly thrilled, but my husband—a sweetheart—asked me with that face like a dog who’d been abandoned. His mother was in a bind, and although I was dying to say no, I agreed. Why pick a fight? But of course, she took it as an invitation to reign.
From the very beginning, the lady started reorganizing my life as if the apartment were hers. And I’d already warned her: “I make the rules here.” We’ve never been thick as thieves, to be honest. It pisses her off that I don’t dance to my tune, and her obsession with bossing people around and lecturing them like she’s the Oracle at Delphi drives me crazy.
She started complaining to my husband, but he, who has two brains, ignored her. What really bothers him is that the apartment is mine, not his, so he can’t do whatever he wants.
My mother-in-law has another daughter, Lola, four years younger than me. She got married last year, already pregnant, and they went to live with her in-laws. They lasted six months, until the baby was born and Lola bolted. My mother-in-law, crying like she was on a soap opera, spilled the beans:
“They’ve destroyed my little girl! That witch of a mother-in-law is a viper! She only knows how to humiliate and insult my poor daughter!”
I almost burst out laughing. Come on, that damn mother-in-law was her clone, word for word. How ironic, isn’t it?
In the end, Lola didn’t get divorced. Her husband—a man who barely makes minimum wage—continued to send her some money until, after a month, he returned to them. To live in my mother-in-law’s tiny apartment, of course. Imagine the spectacle: Grandma sleeping on the kitchen couch, her son-in-law not supporting her, and Lola, the lost sheep, defending her husband in every argument:
“Mom, don’t ruin my marriage!”
There I let go:
“And why don’t you find a rental for them?”
My mother-in-law made a face like, “*What planet are you from?*”:
“With what that boy and Lola earn on maternity leave! What are they going to pay for, a storage room?”
“Well, that’s their problem, not mine.”
But no, it didn’t end there. The woman started showing up at the house constantly: first whining about her bad luck, then complaining about back pain from sleeping on the couch, then about her son-in-law’s problems… Until one day she dropped the bombshell:
“I can’t stand them anymore. Can I stay with you? Just a little while!”
Every fiber of my being screamed “NO,” but my husband looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes and swore it would only take two months. Anyway, I gave in. Of course, with clear rules. She was as fake as a three-euro bill: “Yes, honey, whatever you say.”
The first few weeks he was an angel. Then… the circus began.
Everything seemed wrong to her. The pillows “don’t match,” the pictures “are crooked,” the curtains “are tacky.” At first, I put up with it. When I got fed up, my husband tried to talk to her. To no avail. Two months turned into six (surprise! Lola had no plans to move out).
Then came the little gems: “You waste too much water!” “That tortilla is raw!” “You sweep like you’re in a hurry.” Until one day she threw away all my cleaning products and bought a gray soap that smelled like a post-war hospital: “Chemicals are poison! Vintage rules here!”
And the worst part: I’d open the fridge and throw away my freshly cooked food because “it gave me the creeps” or “it doesn’t agree with my son.” That’s when I exploded. Without consulting anyone, I unleashed the entire speech I’d been cooking up for months:
“You live in MY apartment. I let you stay as a favor, not to reign supreme here. It’s over. Go back to your daughter. I don’t need another mother, or to be told how to run MY house.”
The look on his face was worthy of a frame! When my husband arrived, he tried to confuse him. But he wisely said, “This is your business.”
Then he pulled out the classic: “I’m older, respect me!”, “You should be grateful!” And then I waved goodbye:
“Grateful? For turning my home into a farce? I didn’t ask you for life lessons, nor will I allow my house to be the new *Big Brother* for your neuroses.”
I gave them a month. Let them sort out their mess. Why would I pay for their mess? If she couldn’t handle her daughter, now it’s my turn?
No way. In my house, I’m the boss. Period.
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