My Mother-in-Law Demanded a Duplicate Set of Keys to Our Flat and Faced Rejection

29April2025

Today Margaret Hughes, my motherinlaw, turned up at our flat in Camden demanding a spare set of our frontdoor keys. I tried to explain that we werent about to set off on a roundtheworld adventure, and besides we have no cat for her to feed, but my wife Olivias voice trembled every time she set the clean plates into the dishwasher.

Margaret, a plump, surprisingly spry woman of sixtytwo, perched at the kitchen table, stirring her alreadycooled tea with a spoon. She had arrived to help us settle in, though her help consisted mainly of unsolicited opinions about where the sofa should go and why the curtains Id chosen were a drab melancholy.

Olivia, really, why such a fuss? she asked, raising her eyebrows so high they disappeared under her thick fringe. Its basic security. What if a pipe bursts, or the wiring sparks, or you simply misplace the keys? Ive brought a spare set myself. Im looking out for you, you silly lot.

My fatherinlaw, Paul, sat nearby chewing on a ginger biscuit, hoping the women would sort it out themselves. Hes a good manhardworking and kindbut whenever Margaret leans in, he shrinks back like a schoolboy caught doing something wrong.

If a pipe bursts, Margaret, well shut off the water. If were not home, the building manager can get into the risers, I replied, turning to face her. We wont lose the keys; we have a coded entry system, a video intercom and a decent memory.

Youre preaching to the choir! she snapped, waving her hand. My son lost his keys three times in Year3; Ive been changing locks ever since. Im not moving in with you, I just want a spare. Let it sit in my sideboard, it wont ask for bread. Youll feel better having it there.

Were fine as long as the keys stay with us, Olivia said firmly. We took out a mortgage on this flat, spent a year renovating, and tailored every corner to our taste. Its our private space.

Margaret pursed her lips and the kitchen seemed to grow heavier.

So Im a stranger then, she said sadly, pushing her cup away. I raised a son, stayed up nights, and now you wont even trust me with a spare. Fine, Paul, fetch me some biscuits; Ill be off. I wont intrude on your personal space.

She rose, creaking loudly and clutching her lower back. Paul leapt up immediately.

Mum, whats this about? Olivia didnt mean it that way. Were still getting settled

I get it, son. The daughterinlaw runs the house, her rules apply. A mothers role is just to bake the scones when needed.

She left, trailing cheap perfume and a lingering sense of guilt that settled like a sticky cobweb on Pauls shoulders. When the door shut, he turned to Olivia.

Olly, maybe you were a bit harsh? She just wants whats best for us. If the spare sat untouched in a vase, shed be content and you wouldnt have to worry about her popping round.

Olivia sighed, sinking into a chair. You know my mother better than I do. First the keys just lie around, then shell check whether theyre gathering dust. Next shell pop in to water the plants while were at work and we only have three cacti. Then Ill come home to find my underwear rearranged properly and a pot of greasy stew in the fridge because you starved me. Remember when your sisters mother did the same?

Paul winced, recalling the incident with his sister Sophie. Their mother had been so eager to help with a newborn that she was caught in Pauls bedroom at sevena.m. with a vacuum cleaner, almost prompting a divorce.

Sophies fault, shes softhearted, Paul muttered. Youre the rock, Mum. She wouldnt dare wander in without asking.

Enough, Olivia cut in. Thats the last of it. No more keys for anyone else.

The week passed tranquilly. Olivia was delighted with our new flat the first place we truly owned after five years of hopping from one rented room to another where we couldnt nail a picture to the wall. Bright walls, a spacious wardrobe, a cosy balcony where we sipped coffee each morning. The feeling of privacy felt sacred.

Then on Saturday morning the phone rang. It was Margaret.

Paul, dear, are you home? she asked, voice a little frantic.

Were in bed, Mum, its our day off, I murmured, glancing at the clock nine a.m.

Did you see the curtains I bought at the market? Theyre a dream, perfect for your living room! Those bland blinds look like a hospital ward. Ill bring them over right now!

Olivia, we dont want new curtains I began, but the line was already buzzing.

Forty minutes later the intercom buzzed. Olivia, still in her bathrobe, answered with a sigh.

Open up. The curtains have arrived.

Margaret stormed in like a gale, bags in hand, her face alight with the conviction of a philanthropist.

Look at this beauty! she declared, unfurling heavy fabric embroidered with gold swirls. Itll make the place feel opulent straight away. Paul, fetch the ladder, well hang it together.

Olivia, brewing coffee, replied politely but firmly, Thank you, Margaret, but were going for a minimalist look. The gold pattern wont suit our décor.

Oh, whats this about a concept? Bare walls need a splash of life, Margaret waved her hand dismissively. The next two hours turned into a battle: she tried to tape the curtains to the windows, criticised the colour of the laminate floor (you can see the dust!) and scolded Olivia for not wearing slippers (youll catch a cold, no children will come). When she finally left, lugging the rejected curtains back to the car, Olivia felt as if shed been squeezed like a lemon.

Did you see? She was here two hours. Imagine if she had the keys wed come back from work to find the curtains already hanging. It would be a permanent sore, Olivia muttered, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

Paul said nothing, but his eyes gave away his growing concession.

A few days later Paul came home looking pensive. He lingered by the kitchen sink, washing his hands slowly.

Olly Mum called earlier, she was crying, he said. She said she feels useless, that weve shut her out. She asked if we could give her just one spare set, sealed in an envelope, promising not to open it unless we told her. She swore her heart hurts from our mistrust.

I took a deep breath. The manipulation had reached a new level.

Paul, be honest. Do you want to give her the keys?

I just want her to stop pestering me, he admitted. She calls every day, when I die youll know, what if the fire breaks out, what if you lose the keys. Its getting to me. Maybe we could give her a sealed envelope, tape it shut, sign it. If she opens it, well know straight away.

I looked at him with pity. He was a good son, but he didnt understand that for people like Margaret, boundaries are a challenge.

Fine, I said suddenly. Lets try. But with a condition.

Paul brightened. What condition?

Well give her a dummy set. I have an old set of keys from the disused storage unit at work; they look like ours but wont fit any lock. Well put those in an envelope, seal it, and hand it over. If she respects it, great. If she tries to use them, well have solid proof and can finally close the door on this.

Paul hesitated. Olly, isnt that underhanded? Lying to Mum.

Is demanding access to an adult couples home, using health threats as leverage any less underhanded? This is a test. If she keeps the envelope untouched for a year, well consider a real spare. Deal?

He thought a moment, then nodded.

Alright. Im sure she wont try to break in. She just wants the feeling of ownership.

That weekend we presented Margaret with a thick paper envelope, wrapped in clear tape.

Mum, here you go, Paul said, handing over the precious cargo. Its a duplicate, but only to be used in an emergency, if were both unavailable or we ask you to.

Margaret beamed, clutching the envelope to her chest like a relic. Of course, dear! Itll sit in the sideboard, safe under the documents. Im not a barbarian, I wont barge in uninvited.

I forced a smile, though inside I felt like a cat with its tail in a knot. The charade was uncomfortable, but I saw no other way to protect our boundaries.

A month passed. Margaret behaved impeccably, calling less, not dropping by unannounced. Paul walked around smugly, I told you she just needed peace of mind. I began to wonder whether Id overreacted, whether Margaret had truly changed.

The climax came on a Wednesday afternoon. My smarthome app pinged: Movement in hallway followed by Door attempt. My heart dropped. The smart lock, which looks like a regular deadbolt from the outside, showed a live feed from the peephole. On the stairwell, Margaret stood, envelope torn, clutching the dummy key and trying desperately to fit it into the lock. The key wouldnt turn. She muttered to herself, pushing the handle, grimacing.

I hit record, then called Paul.

Pash, can you hear me?

Yes, Im at lunch. Whats happened?

Im sending you the video. Look at the history for the last five minutes.

A minute later Paul called back, voice shaky. She shes there. The key doesnt fit. Its around one oclock, were at work, no fire, no flood. Why is she trying to get in?

Dont call her, I said. Well go this evening, together, and collect the keys.

That evening felt like stepping onto a scaffold ready to collapse. Margaret greeted us in a robe, looking indignant. The broken envelope and the useless storageunit keys lay on the hall table.

Well, youre here, she said, not even pausing to remove her shoes. What a joke! A pair of cheap metal bits! I spent half an hour trying to get in, the neighbour thought I was a thief! Shame!

Paul froze at the doorway. He expected apologies, tears maybe, but not an accusation.

Mum, stop, I said quietly. You tried to open our flat. We agreed the envelope was only for emergencies. Whats the emergency?

What emergency? I was passing by, thought Id pop in, drop off some homemade meat pies, maybe surprise you. The intercom was silent, so I used the key. You gave me a fake one!

I stepped forward. Margaret, you broke the seal. You breached the agreement. Trying to enter our home without permission is a violation of our privacy.

She sputtered, Im a mother! I have a right to know how my son lives! Maybe you have mud up to your knees! Maybe you dont feed him!

Enough! Paul shouted, his voice cracking the hallways silence. Youve lied. You said youd keep the envelope untouched. Yet you tore it open, tried the key. This is not caring; its intrusion.

She stared at him, stunned. Mum, you deceived me. You swore the envelope would stay asis, then you rushed to check it at the first chance. Meat pies? Were you checking if Olivia had done the dishes? Or snooping in the cupboards?

I I wanted to help she stammered, slipping back into the victim role. Youre ungrateful!

No, Mum, Paul said, shaking his head. Were adults. Youre acting like a spy. Im ashamed, honestly ashamed of how you treat my wife.

He took the dummy key, slipped it into his pocket. From now on, no more duplicates. No just in case keys. Visits only by invitation, at least a days notice.

Youre kicking your own mother out of your life? Margaret gasped theatrically, clutching her chest.

Its setting boundaries, I replied. If you dont respect my wife and our home, you dont respect me. I wont allow that.

I took Olivias hand. Come on, love, dinner awaits. No pies, just peace.

We left the flat, the stairwell silent, the evening air crisp on the stairs. Paul breathed in the cool night.

Sorry, he said, not looking at me. You were right from the start. I should have said a firm no earlier.

Olivia squeezed his hand. You did the right thing, Pash. You protected us.

Should we change the locks anyway? he asked with a crooked grin. Just in case she makes a mould of that dummy key and tries to break into some abandoned warehouse on the outskirts?

I laughed. No need. The smart lock is fine. Well just give Mum a bit of time to cool off.

For two weeks Margaret kept her silence, indulging in a quiet grievance. I felt the tension ease, and Olivia kept me steady with walks and the occasional cinema outing.

Two weeks later, a Sunday text pinged on my phone: Baked cabbage pies. Come over if you like. If not, Ill give them to the neighbour.

Paul showed me the message.

What do you think?

I think its a white flag, Olivia said, smiling. Lets go. Her pies are brilliant. But the keys stay locked away.

The safe, Paul joked, the code only Ill know. Just kiddingonly you know it.

We drove over. The meeting was tense but civil; Margaret kept her lips pressed, never mentioning the keys. She seemed to realise that pushing too hard only hit a wall no amount of pies could breach.

Back home, I turned the lock and heard the soft click. The quiet inside felt like a blessing.

Pash, Olivia called from the lounge.

Yes?

Thank you.

Paul appeared in the kitchen, an apple in his hand.

For what?

For choosing us.

He crossed the room, hugged her, and rested his cheek against her hair.

Ive learned that a home isnt just bricks and locks. Its where youre heard and respected. I dont want anyone, not even my own mother with the best intentions, running the show in our house.

Life goes on. Margaret still tests the borders now and thenoffering advice, bringing unsolicited giftsbut the key issue is finally settled. As long as that small piece of metal stays in our pocket, our family feels safe.

Lesson learned: love and respect are the true locks; you must keep the keys to those boundaries in your own hands.