My mother-in-law has always been fiercely protective of her son. Looking back, there wasnt a day during the holidays when my husband didnt stop by her house for lunch. Hed get messages from her all day long. If something troubled him, hed run to her first for advice. And should he ever need some money, off hed go to his mother.
I remember one evening, returning home from work, only to find his mother already there, a hefty suitcase in tow, filled with all sorts of odds and ends books and trinkets.
Good evening, Mrs. Bennett! I greeted politely. What have you brought with you this time?
Ive decided to stay for the week, dear, help you keep the house in order, look after the little one and your husband, Tom. You know full well its important to keep him well-fed, and you simply dont have the hours for everything these days, not with your job, she replied with that air of certainty that brooked no argument.
Mrs. Bennett was always a woman of strong opinions and firm habits. I didnt quarrel with her then nor did I try to explain myself. I simply went straight to Tom to talk things over. His response stunned me, even now.
Tom, I said carefully, did you know your mother has decided to camp out in our home this week? Without so much as a word to us beforehand? She’s convinced Im not managing things properly.
Tom only shrugged. I dont see the problem. Let her stay. Why is it all right for your mum to come and visit and not mine? Is your mother somehow less capable? When your mum visited last summer, did I complain?
I tried to keep my temper. Tom, my mother lives in Durham, she comes once or twice a year shes hardly underfoot. Id never put her up in a hotel! Your mother lives at the end of the road and pops over several times a week!
Truth be told, I never liked Mrs. Bennett lingering about while I was away. I could picture her, nosing through drawers and cupboards, tidying things that belonged to me, rearranging what should be left alone.
Tom was so accustomed to this smothering care from his mother. His hair had gone peppered with grey, yet she still flew in, toting casseroles, fussing over him, and giving advice on the most trivial things. Mrs. Bennetts meddling was the source of more arguments than I care to recall. What troubled me was that Tom had never quite cut the apron strings; and in her eyes, I would always fall short at looking after her beloved son. She would inundate me with tips on running the house, suggestions on childcare, opinions on everything.
When Tom and I first wed, Mrs. Bennett would appear daily washing Toms socks, clearing up, expecting me to be home to serve him supper. Eventually, Id had enough. After long talks with Tom, he spoke to his mother, and she agreed to visit only two or three times a week. When our son, Philip, was born, however, she started dropping by yet again.
I remember making up my mind: If Mrs. Bennett was to take control of our home, I would leave. I told Tom plainly that Id go and rent a flat for myself if things didnt change.
She only wants to help! Tom said, his voice bitter.
Is her help really what I need? I replied, remembering how long Id been trying to make our house truly our own.
