Nothing at all, dear Mum! Youve got your own place, havent you? Thats where you live. Dont come round here unless we actually invite you.
My mother lives in a quaint little village nestled beside an old English stream, the sort you see in biscuit tin paintings. Theres a patch of woods behind her garden, bursting with blackberries and mushrooms during the season. When I was little, I would race through the meadows clutching a basket, delighted to be a one-girl harvest festival. I ended up marrying an old schoolmate whose parents live just down the lane, on the opposite side. Their house doesnt have any woodland or river access, so whenever we escape London for some fresh air, we stay with my mother.
Lately, however, Mum has changed maybe its her age, or maybe it’s jealousy over my husband (whom I assure you has all the envy of a greenhouse tomato). Our country weekends have gradually evolved into a marathon of bickering and dramatic sighs, where peaceful resolution seems as likely as a royal pardon for a corgi. When we stopped over at my in-laws place a couple of times to mix things up, Mum managed to start an argument there too, this time with her own boyfriend, and over complete trifles. My mother-in-law got so wound up she yelled loud enough for the whole village to hear by teatime, local gossip had a fresh episode.
After tempers cooled about a month later, my husband and I hatched what seemed a brilliant plan: wed build our own house nearby, so no one could get cross about where we stayed, and we might actually have somewhere to call home that didnt have someones opinion lurking in every corner.
Getting a plot of land took ages, requiring more paperwork than a minor royal divorce, but, miraculously, we did it. My in-laws went full DIY SOS on us, with my father-in-law regularly haunting our new-build site like a friendly (if slightly bossy) ghost.
But the only persistent thorn was my mum. Shed show up, serve unsolicited advice, nitpick every brick, and generally keep up a running critique basically, she would not let up. The build was, to put it mildly, an absolute ordeal.
A year later the house was finally done; we looked forward to peace and fresh paint. Did we get it? Hardly! Mum refused to quit the pop-by habit, accused us of selfishness, and insisted she wouldnt help out any more. Never mind that my husband had always fixed things at hers: mowing, mending leaky roofs, you name it.
One Sunday, Mum declared:
Why do you even come here anymore? Stay up in your city when you visit, you just show off your fancy new house.
That was the last straw for my poor husband. He approached Mum, calm as a placid pond, but with the sort of quiet resolve that makes you reconsider your entire life.
Whats all this then, son-in-law?
Nothing, dear Mum! Youve got your home? Live there, wont you? Only come round if we actually invite you. At least give us a weekend off now and then. If you need help, ring us; if the place is on fire, well be straight over!
What do you mean, fire? What fire?
At this, Mum nearly bolted out the door, clutching her handbag like the crown jewels. I sucked my cheeks to stifle a laugh, watching her glance suspiciously about as she marched off towards the garden gate. My husband, now sheepish, held his hands up:
Well, I suppose the fire bit was a tad much.
No, you were spot on.
We collapsed in giggles recalling Mums wide-eyed evasive manoeuvres. Afterwards, tranquility finally blessed our new home. Mum stopped dropping by unannounced, graciously accepted my husbands help only for essentials, and now communicates strictly in single-word sentences. I suspect she still remembers the fire and honestly, I cant say I blame her.
