The Daytime Cuckoo Outstayed Her Welcome: When Your Mother-in-Law Moves In and Takes Over Your Home,…

The Cuckoo Sang By Day

Shes having a laugh! I exploded. Tom, can you come in here? Now!

My husband, having just kicked off his trainers in the hallway, poked his head around the bathroom door, undoing the top button of his shirt.

Em, whats up now, Sarah? Ive just got in from work, my heads pounding

Whats up? I gestured sharply at the edge of the bathtub. Look closely. Wheres my shampoo? Wheres the hair mask I bought yesterday?

Tom squinted, peering at the neat line of bottles.

Sitting there was a massive bottle of coal tar shampoo, some litre of Burdock nonsense, and a weighty glass jar of cream in a frankly alarming shade of brown.

Um thats just Mum bringing her bits over. I think she finds it easier with everything to hand he muttered, deliberately avoiding my gaze.

Easier? Tom, she doesnt live here! Now look down.

I crouched and dragged out a plastic basin from under the bath, where my pricey French haircare products, along with my sponge and razor, were dumped together.

So, what, Tom? She scraped all my stuff into that filthy tub and arranged hers in pride of place?

She decided my things belonged next to the old mop, while her Burdock should have centre stage on the bathtub!

Tom exhaled heavily.

Sarah, please dont make a fuss. Mums had a tough time lately, you know she has. Let me move your things back and well have dinner, yeah? Shes made stuffed cabbage, by the way.

Im not eating her stuffed cabbage, I snapped. And why on earth is she always hanging around here anyway? Why is she running my home, Tom?

I feel like some lodger, only just permitted to use the loo.

Shoving past Tom, I stormed out, and he quietly slid the tub of my stuff back under the bath with his foot.

The infamous housing problem ruining so many lives had never troubled Tom and me.

Tom had his own spacious flat in a shiny new block, left to him by his grandfather.

Id inherited a cosy place from my nan.

After the wedding, we decided Toms was bestfreshly decorated with air conditioning, while my flat was let out to a nice couple.

Toms parents kept things strictly politea sort of armed neutrality with the occasional warm smile.

Margaret and her eternally quiet, bookish husband Victor lived on the other side of town.

Once a week was the ritual: tea, perfunctory questions about work and health, polite grins exchanged.

Sarah, youve lost weight, Margaret would say, offering me a slice of cake. Tom, youre not feeding your wife again, are you?

Mum, we just go to the gym, Tom would reply, batting her off.

And that was that. No surprise visits, no household hints, no lectures.

Id actually boasted to friends, Ive landed on my feet with my mother-in-law. Golden womannever meddles, never nags, never tries to run our lives.

Then, one bleak Tuesday, everything fell apart. Victor, whod been married to Margaret for thirty-two years, suddenly packed his suitcase, left a note on the kitchen tableGone to the seaside, dont look for me!blocked all contact, and vanished.

Turned out his second wind wasnt just a saying, but a very real, sprightly receptionist from the Health Spa in Bournemouth where the couple had holidayed for three years.

The world collapsed for sixty-year-old Margaret.

At first, it was tears, calls at three in the morning, endless rehashing:

How could he? Why? Sarah, what am I supposed to do?!

I did genuinely sympathise. I shuttled over with herbal teas, listened to the same story for the tenth time, and nodded politely as she cursed that lecherous old wolf.

But, honestly, my patience soon wore thinher never-ending complaint started to get right up my nose.

Tom, shes rung five times since breakfast, I grumbled over my cereal. Wanted you to change a lightbulb. In the hall.

I get it, really, but When will it end?

My husband immediately wilted.

Shes lonely, Sarah. Listen, shes spent her whole life with Dad in the house, and he just

Be kind to her, please

She can change a bulb herself or call a handyman. But noshe needs you. Or me. Do I have to?

That was just the beginning, though. Next came the overnight staysTom started shuttling off to his mums.

Sarah, Mum cant sleep alone, she says the silence is deafening. Ill just stay there for a couple of nights, alright?

A couple of nights? I frowned. Tom, we got married five minutes ago, and already youre scarpering! I dont want to sleep half the week by myself.

Its just for now, love. Shell pull herself together soon. Promise.

For now dragged on for a month.

Margaret demanded Tom sit with her four evenings a week, through the night. She faked high blood pressure, chased up phantom panic attacks, deliberately blocked the sink with peelings.

I could see Tom being stretched thin, torn between two homes, and I made the very mistake Id live to regret.

***
I decided to be honest with Margaret over Sunday lunch.

Listen, Margaret, I said, putting my fork down, If youre really so miserable rattling round on your own all day, why not pop round to ours in the daytime?

Toms out at work, Im often working from home. Youll be in the centre, have a stroll round the park, sit here for a bit. Then Tom can drive you home in the evening.

Margaret gave me a strange look.

Youre a clever girl, Sarah Why should I stew alone?

I was thinking shed pop over a couple of afternoons, maybe show up around midday, and always leave before Tom came home.

But Margaret had her own ideasshe turned up bang on seven in the morning.

Whos there? Tom mumbled, bleary-eyed, as the doorbell blared.

He went to answer it himself.

Its me! Margarets cheery voice came over the intercom. Ive brought you some fresh cottage cheese!

I pulled the covers over my head.

What on earth I hissed. Tom, its SEVEN AM! Where on earth did she get fresh cottage cheese at this hour?!

Mums an early riser, Tom said, already pulling on his trousers. Go back to sleep, Ill let her in.

From that morning, our life was turned upside down. Margaret didnt just visitshe installed herself in our flat for eight hours a day.

Id try to get work done on my laptop, but there she was, right over my shoulder:

Sarah, youve missed the dust on the telly. Ive got a cloth here, let me give that a once-over.

Margaret, Im busy, Ive got a meeting in five!

Oh, dont be silly, youre just staring at pictures. Goodness, love, you iron Toms shirts all wrong! You want a crease so sharp you could shave with it. Let me show you, since youre just waiting for your clients.

Nothing escaped her critique.

Chopping veg: Tom likes them in strips, not those cubes like youd get in a canteen.

Making the bed: The cover should drape to the floor, not leave the legs out.

The bathroom: You want a pleasant scent, not that whiff of damp.

Sarah, dont be offended, shed say, peering into the soup pan. But youve over-salted this. Toms always had a delicate stomach. Youll ruin him with your cooking. Step aside, Ill redo it.

Its delicious, I muttered, clenching my fists. Tom had two bowls last night.

Oh, hes just being polite. Doesnt want to upset you, poor lamb.

By lunchtime, my nerves would be in tatters.

Id escape to a coffee shop, spend hours there, just to avoid her commentary.

And when I returned, my irritation only grew.

First her favourite mug appeared in the kitchena big garish thing with Best Mum on the side.

Then, her raincoat was on a hook in the hall, and within a week, a whole shelf had been cleared in the wardrobe for her spares and a couple of fluffy dressing gowns.

Why do you need dressing gowns here? I asked, finding a massive pink towelling beast among my silks.

Well, darling, Im here all day. Its nice to change into something comfy. Were all family now, why are you sulking?

Tom always replied to my complaints the same way:

Sarah, please, show a bit of understanding. Shes hurting. She just wants to feel needed. Is a bit of wardrobe space too much?

Its not about the shelf, Tom! Your mums squeezing me out of my own flat!

Dont exaggerate. She helpscooks, cleans. Youve always said you hate ironing.

Id rather go out creased than wear something ironed by her! Id snap.

But it was as if he couldnt hear me.

***
The bottles in the bathroom were the last straw.

Tom, come on! Margaret called from the kitchen. The stuffed cabbage is getting cold!

Sarah, you come as wellIve used less pepper for you, I know youre not keen on spice.

I charged into the kitchen, where Margaret was already laying out plates with the confidence of a woman at home.

Margaret, I asked, voice tight, Why did you put my things under the bath?

She didnt even flinch, calmly putting Toms fork beside his plate and smiling sweetly.

Oh, those bottles, pet? Yours were nearly empty, just cluttering up the place. And the smellgoodness, gave me a migraine. I replaced them with my trusted ones. Yours are neatly tucked away, not in the way. You dont mind, do you? The place needed a tidy.

I do mind, I stepped up to the table. This is my bathroom. My things. My home!

Oh, not really yours, dear, surely? Margaret sat heavily, sighing as if to the room. The flats Toms. Youre the lady of the house, of course, but you ought to respect your husbands mother.

Tom, in the doorway, went pale.

Mum, dont Sarahs got a place too, its just we live here

Oh, that old place? Margaret waved her off. Bit of a dump, honestly.

Tom, come eat. Your wifes in a mood again, probably hungry.

I looked at Tom. I was waiting.

Waiting for him to say, Mum, thats enough. Youve crossed the line. Pack up and go home.

Tom stood uncertainly, glancing between us, and then just sat down at the table.

Sarah, please, just eat. Lets talk reasonably. Mum, you shouldnt have moved Sarahs things

There, you see? Margaret crowed. My son understands. And you, Sarah, dont be so possessive. A family shares everything.

And my patience finally shattered.

Everythings shared, is it? I repeated. Alright then.

I turned and walked out of the kitchen.

Tom called something after me, but I wasnt listening. I packed my things in twenty minutes, shoved them all into suitcases.

I didnt bother with my bathroom bitslet her keep them. Id buy new ones.

I left to a chorus of two voices: Tom pleading with me to stay, and Margaret lamenting while making sly digs at her daughter-in-law.

***
I had no intention of going backapplied for divorce straight after my escape.

My not-yet-official ex-husband still calls, pleading with me to come back, while Margaret slowly shifts more of her stuff into Toms flat.

And Im certainthat was precisely her plan all along.