**Wednesday, 15th March**
I can’t believe it’s come to this. Mother-in-law wars—who knew they’d be my reality?
“Absolutely not, Eleanor! It’s impossible!” I paced the kitchen like a caged animal, hands flailing. “We’ve barely got space as it is—what kind of home is a two-bed flat for three people?”
“Oh, don’t be dramatic, Victor,” she tutted, folding her arms over her formidable bosom. “I’ll manage just fine in the nursery. Little Oliver needs looking after, and between work and the baby, you and Emily are run ragged.”
Emily hovered in the doorway, baby in arms, looking torn. “Mum, we *are* coping…”
“Coping?” Eleanor scoffed. “You’re exhausted! Dark circles no concealer can hide, barely eating—next thing you know, you’ll be heading for divorce!”
I clenched my jaw. “We’ve been married five years, Eleanor. A baby changes things, but not *us*.”
She rolled her eyes. “You think you know everything. Postpartum is no picnic—who’ll make Emily bone broth for her milk supply, hm?”
Emily groaned. Once Mum started on broths and herbal remedies, arguing was futile.
“Anyway,” Eleanor announced, “I’ve already packed. My return ticket’s not for two months. Plenty of time to settle you in.”
“*Two months?!*” we cried in unison.
She ignored us, bustling to the hall where two enormous suitcases waited. “Victor, be a dear and move these to the nursery? Oh, and Oliver’s cot needs shifting to your room. I’ll take the sofa bed—I don’t mind roughing it.”
I shot Emily a pleading look. She just shrugged. Against Eleanor’s determination, we were powerless.
And so, the invasion began.
She commandeered our lives like a general—feeding schedules, nappy rotations, even dictating when I should work late. “Victor! A wrinkled shirt? What will your colleagues think?”
“I usually iron at night,” I snapped, “but someone had the telly blaring *EastEnders* till midnight while Oliver screamed!”
“Exactly!” she crowed. “See? You need me. And mind your tone—my soaps are sacred. Forty years without missing an episode!”
A week in, I was losing my mind. No private conversations with Emily, no bonding with Oliver without her commentary, not even a bloody sandwich without her judging my bites.
That evening, while she was out, I whispered, “Emily, this can’t go on. She’s taken over.”
“I know,” she sighed. “But if I ask her to leave, she’ll never let it go. You know how she is.”
“So we live like this forever? Four in a two-bed?”
Before she could answer, the door clicked. Eleanor was back.
I had to act. If she wouldn’t leave willingly, I’d make her *want* to.
First, I worked late. No luck—she just waited up with reheated shepherd’s pie. “A man should be with his family,” she chided.
Then, I became the flatmate from hell—blaring Radiohead, leaving socks everywhere, hogging the telly for football. She just plugged her ears, folded my clothes, and recorded her soaps on an ancient VHS player she’d brought.
“Victor,” she said one day, eyebrow raised, “you’re not subtle. But I’m patient. And everything I do is for your family’s good.”
Then—the breaking point. Overheard on the phone: “Oh, Margaret, it’s perfect! Emily’s hopeless, Victor’s trapped. I might even let my place out! Extra income, and they’ll thank me for drowning out Oliver’s crying with *Coronation Street*!”
That was it. I found her return ticket—three days away. Time for the final play.
That night, I was *charming*. Flowers, compliments, even a “surprise theatre trip” tomorrow. She preened, baffled but pleased.
Next day, the taxi “to the West End” detoured to Euston Station.
“Why are we here?” she demanded.
“We heard your call, Eleanor,” I said calmly. “You’re moving in permanently. But Emily and I… we need to do this ourselves.”
Emily nodded. “We love you, Mum. But this is *our* family.”
Eleanor turned purple. “So this is your gratitude?! Tricking your own mother?”
“Train’s first-class,” I said, handing her the ticket and an envelope. “Cab fare home, groceries delivery tomorrow. We’ll walk you to your carriage.”
To my shock, she didn’t fight. Just a resigned huff. “Fine. But don’t come crying when you’re drowning!” At the platform, she hesitated. “Who’ll read to Oliver? He loves my voice…”
“I will,” I said firmly.
“*You?*” She snorted. “Tone-deaf and all. Poor lamb…”
As the train pulled away, Emily suddenly giggled. “Can you imagine her telling the W.I. you *kidnapped* her?”
We laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks.
That night, the flat was blissfully quiet. Just us three.
As I rocked Oliver, I realised: Eleanor *had* helped. We’d learned—about parenting, teamwork, even patience.
“Maybe…” I said later, “we invite her for a fortnight in summer. When Oliver’s six months. *Two weeks.* No soaps at full volume.”
Emily hugged me. “Deal. I love you.”
“Love you too,” I murmured. “And Oliver. And your mum… in small doses… from a distance.”
