My mother-in-law wants to visit again, but this time I refused—and I won’t change my mind.

Not long ago, my husband started pestering me with the same old plea—his mother, he claimed, missed us terribly and was desperate to come stay. That’s when something in me snapped. I said no, firmly and finally. A single visit from her in all six years of our marriage had been more than enough to swear me off the idea forever. Back then, she’d shown up unannounced, not alone, but with her sister in tow—like a bolt from the blue. I’d held my tongue then. Now? Not a chance.

“If you want to see your mother, by all means, take our daughter and visit her. If you’d rather book her a hotel, I won’t say a word. But she is not setting foot in this house again.”

Yet it seems she won’t hear of a hotel, much less hosting us in her own home. No, she’s fixated on barging into our flat. I’ve asked myself—why this insistence on forcing her way into a place where she’s unwelcome?

My husband hails from Yorkshire. We met as students in London. Before we married, he shared a flat with mates, then moved in with me afterward. This place was bought by my parents a decade ago, in my name. It’s my home, my responsibility.

His mother is far from penniless. She could easily have helped him buy his own place, but instead, she’d always say, “What if you divorce, and that clever wife of yours takes everything? Best he lives under her roof—safer that way.” Yet she’d been quick to help his sister, Emily. On her advice, Emily even staged a divorce from her husband to secure help with the mortgage. Now Emily lives in Edinburgh, on maternity leave, while her “ex” pays the mortgage and child support. Everyone’s happy.

Once, my mother-in-law even suggested we do the same—divorce for show. My reply was icy:

“If we divorce, it’ll be real. And immediate. Pack your bags and live as you please—alone.”

That put an end to it. I’ve never once visited her home—never had the desire. But three years ago, she finally came to us.

“I want to see my granddaughter at least once,” she’d said. “Photos don’t tell me who she takes after.”

I agreed. No one warned me she’d bring her sister along. Apparently, they needed a full in-person comparison. Their scheme failed—our daughter is the spitting image of her father. Even they had to admit it.

I prepared their room, they settled in, played with our girl, accepted their gifts. Then we sat down to eat. I’d gone all out—roast chicken, homemade pies, three salads, cold cuts, a cake, fresh fruit… But before we’d even taken a bite, the complaints began.

“Where are the meat pies?” she demanded.

“Were you expecting more?” I asked, baffled.

“No, just asking…”

After dinner, it continued:

“My son knows perfectly well what I like. Clearly, he hasn’t told you.”

I remembered him mentioning their family’s obsession with offal—liver, kidneys, black pudding. I’ve loathed the smell of raw liver since childhood and simply can’t cook it.

The next day, they went out, and I tried to appease her—baking pastries with cheese, ham, and greens. I served them proudly.

“Where’s the black pudding?” she scoffed. “You knew I wanted that!”

I explained, again, about the smell. She rolled her eyes. Later, at lunch, another scene:

“What, soup without tripe? Just plain meat?” she said, disgusted.

That was it. …

ℝe@d m0re in c0mments 👇👇👇