You know, I used to think my life with Rob was like something out of a fairytale—love, support, our own little home, stable jobs, everything I ever dreamed of. But that fairytale ended the moment his mum moved in. First, just into the building next to ours, and then straight into our peace and privacy.
Rob had bought the flat—a two-bed, on a mortgage—before we even got married. When we met, I moved in. We both worked, both chipped in for the bills and the renovation. Six months later, we tied the knot. Life was perfect, no meddling, no drama.
Then everything changed. After his dad passed, his mum, Margaret, decided to move from the countryside into the city. She sold her house and, with this weird determination, bought a flat in our very same building, just a couple of doors down. Little did I know, that was the moment my life started falling apart.
At first, she’d just pop round “for a cuppa.” Then she started showing up unannounced, checking what was in our fridge, how often we did laundry, who was cooking what. Very quickly, it turned into constant nitpicking.
*“Two jackets? Have you lost the plot? In my day, one lasted five years!”* she’d snap, eyeing up my wardrobe.
*“Two coats, two pairs of boots… What d’are you need all that for? Think you’re on the catwalk?”*—something like this every single week.
All I did was take care of myself. Did my nails at home, styled my own hair. Yeah, I bought clothes—but on sale, with discounts. I wasn’t splashing out on designer stuff, just wanted to look presentable. But to Margaret, I was reckless. Worse—she made sure Rob knew it.
At first, he brushed it off. Then the questions started.
*“How much was that top? That dress? Why d’are need new mascara if you’ve still got some left?”*
It wore me down. My own husband was auditing our spending, all because his mum had convinced him I was bleeding us dry. But her little games didn’t stop there.
When Rob was away for work, I started feeling awful—dizzy, headache, couldn’t even stand. I left early and took a cab home, just to rest. An hour later, someone’s hammering at the door. I didn’t answer. The last thing I wanted was Margaret’s lectures when I felt like death.
Turns out, she rang Rob later, all fake concern: *“You’ll never guess—I went to check on Lily, and she wouldn’t answer! And before that, some bloke dropped her off in a cab. Reckon she’s cheating…”*
When Rob called me, sounding furious, demanding answers, I nearly lost it. What kind of nonsense is that? How does a grown woman have the nerve to spin tales like that? Just because I didn’t answer the door when I was ill?
Now I’m living on edge. She’s like a shadow—always there, counting my shopping, watching where I go, who I talk to on the phone. This isn’t care. It’s a full-on witch hunt.
I’m terrified of what she’ll do next. Maybe she’ll tell Rob I hit him. That I’m stealing from us. She’d do anything to wreck our marriage.
The worst part? Rob’s changing. He doubts me more, stays quiet when I beg him to put his mum in her place. And I don’t know what I’ll do if he starts believing her instead of me.
Do some mums really want their sons miserable, trapped and suspicious, just so they’ll never leave? Has she got nothing better to do than make my life hell and tear us apart?
And here I was, just wanting to be a happy wife.