We had to change the locks to stop my mother-in-law from taking over our flat.
My husband and I have been married for a year now, and all this time, his mum has acted as though she can’t accept that her son didn’t follow her script. Apparently, she dreamed of him marrying some tycoon’s daughter so he’d not only live in luxury but drag her along for the ride. Where she got such grand ideas is a mystery. In reality, we’re just an ordinary couple—tightened our belts at first, got a mortgage, and now live in my one-bedroom flat while renting out the new one. Next on the list is buying a car. Standard stuff for a young couple—nothing extravagant, but we’re not scraping by either.
Yet she refuses to face facts and keeps spinning her fantasies. She hasn’t given up on wrecking our marriage, and her methods are downright creative—lipstick stains on his shirts, women’s perfume clinging to his clothes, condoms mysteriously appearing in my handbag. Of course, it caused rows, suspicion, and drama. Thankfully, we always got to the truth, but the bitterness lingered.
Not long ago, my husband was offered a two-month assignment in a nearby city—his firm was expanding, and they put him in charge of launching the new branch. It was a career opportunity, so we agreed. He left, and I carried on as usual.
A few days later, I noticed odd things—items out of place, the wardrobe clearly rummaged through. I thought maybe he’d popped back, since it wasn’t far. When I called, he was baffled and swore he hadn’t been back. An hour later, he rang again, voice grim. He reckoned it was his mum. Years ago, before a trip, he’d given her a spare key “just in case”—and never got it back.
The next day, I left work early and called a locksmith. I warned my husband that if he ever handed out keys again, he’d be sleeping on the landing. By evening, everything in the flat was back where it belonged. So it *had* been her. I checked the wardrobe and found… a tiny hidden camera tucked on the top shelf.
I rang my husband straight away. At first, he went quiet—then burst out laughing, probably from shock. I turned the flat upside down searching for more, but thankfully, there was nothing. I didn’t kick up a fuss—he asked me to wait till he got back to deal with it.
The next day, his mum rang. Clearly, her key didn’t work anymore, and she was fishing for a way in. Asked if I was home, said she fancied “popping round for tea.” I told her I was out but we’d arrange it another time. Half an hour later, my husband called—she’d already complained to him that I was “out gallivanting” and the place was empty.
By then, we just found it funny. We joked about what excuse she’d try next. Sure enough—calls every day. A parcel had supposedly been delivered to our address by mistake. She’d left her reading glasses behind. Just wanted to drop off some scones.
When my husband returned, she announced she was coming over. We waited. She turned up with scones, then headed to “wash her hands”—but made a beeline for the bedroom instead. We followed, of course, and caught her rifling through the wardrobe. Flustered, she stammered some nonsense until my husband pulled the camera from his pocket and held it up.
Then came the theatrics. She shrieked about my “endless affairs,” called me a liar, and accused him of being blind. Even fake-gasped and clutched her chest for effect. Finally, she slammed the door and strutted off like some wronged martyr.
Honestly, I nearly applauded. That performance deserved an award. But this was just one battle. I know the war isn’t over. Still, I’m glad we didn’t back down. We made it clear—our home isn’t her stage for absurdity.
