Six months ago, my mother-in-law moved in with us. She’s got her own house, mind you, and is perfectly capable of looking after herself, but she somehow convinced my husband she needed help. Oh, the horror of living alone, she said—so tragic, so unbearable—that he rushed to relocate her into our modest two-bedroom flat in London.
Margaret Whitmore—oh pardon, *Margaret Whitmore*—is what you’d call a handful. A spotlight addict, if you will. When her husband was alive, she barely spared us a glance. Small mercies, really, because in all my years of marriage, I never did crack the code to getting along with her.
*“Darling, a wife should always freshen up before her husband comes home. Even at my age, I’d never let myself go like this. And really, your roast could use some work—perhaps a cooking course? Pity your mother never taught you.”*
Ah, the classics. According to Margaret, her way is the *only* way, while my efforts might as well have been crafted by a blindfolded toddler. Before, when we only saw her at Christmas, I bit my tongue. But now? Now her commentary is a daily special, and my patience is running thinner than cheap teabags.
Her husband passed last year. We saw it coming—he’d battled cancer for years. After he died, Margaret was a ghost of herself. Barely ate, barely spoke. For the first month, we didn’t dare leave her alone.
Then, like a villain in a bad telly drama, she *recovered*. The snide remarks returned. The nitpicking resumed. In a twisted way, I took it as a sign she was back to normal. Too bad my relief was short-lived—next came the waterworks about how *dreadfully* lonely she was.
*“I’m just so frightfully isolated. The house echoes, my heart races—what if something happens? Wouldn’t it be *lovely* if we lived together?”*
My husband, bless him, wasn’t thrilled, but guilt won out. The nightly phone calls, the tragic monologues—it wore him down. I, however, dug my heels in. Living with Margaret? Over my dead body. She even suggested *we* move into *her* place—spacious, she said. Sure, and I’d get to play permanent guest in *her* kingdom. No thanks. Our flat’s in central London—handy for work, the shops, my *sanity*.
I knew her game. Give her an inch, she’d take the whole mile—and my dignity with it. My husband swore it’d be temporary. Promised he’d “keep her in line.” Six months later, our marriage is hanging by a thread. I’m a frazzled, irritable mess, playing maid to a woman who treats me like hired help.
Tea on demand, walks on schedule, telly programmes queued just *so*—all while being lectured on my utter neglect of her emotional needs. And if I dare put a foot wrong? Cue the dramatic clutching of pearls, the gasps, the *“Oh, call an ambulance, it’s my heart!”*
We *almost* booked a seaside holiday last month. Then Margaret sobbed like we’d sentenced her to solitary confinement. *“You’d *abandon* me? Take me with you!”* As if a week in Brighton with her criticising my sunscreen application sounds like a *holiday*. My husband just shrugs. But I’ve reached my limit. If he won’t choose, I will. Divorce papers might just be the next thing on my to-do list.
