When my mother-in-law moved in “temporarily,” I thought I could handle it. But as the weeks dragged on, she settled in as if the place belonged to her. When I found out why she refused to leave, I knew I had to take matters into my own hands.
The first time Margaret called our guest room her room, I should have known.
She arrived with two massive suitcases, dropped them onto the bed, and let out a long sigh. “Phew! This is going to be so much better than that old place. My room is perfect!”
I forced a smile. I wanted to say, “guest room,” but I bit my tongue.
Margaret wasn’t supposed to stay long. Just two weeks, maybe three. Her house was being “renovated,” though she never explained exactly what was being done.
Asher and I had talked about it. I wasn’t thrilled, but I agreed. “She’s getting older,” he had said. “It’s just temporary.”
So, I nodded and smiled while she settled onto my couch and kicked off her shoes. “Ahh,” she sighed. “It feels so good to be home.”
I told myself to be patient.
At first, it was just little things. The morning after she arrived, Margaret reorganized my kitchen.
When I walked in, she was standing on a stool, stacking my coffee mugs on a different shelf. My spices were in new jars, and my utensils were arranged her way.
“Your system was a mess, darling,” she said cheerfully. “I don’t know how you managed like that.”
I forced a laugh. “I guess I just… made it work?”
She patted my cheek like I was a child. “Well, you don’t have to struggle anymore. I fixed it!”
I swallowed my irritation. “Thanks, Margaret. But I liked it the way it was.”
She gave me a pitying look. “Oh, sweetheart, you’ll get used to it.”
Then, there was the dishwashing.
Margaret never washed a single plate. She ate, left her dirty dishes in the sink, and walked away as if she had done her part.
The first time, I let it slide. The second time, I gently asked, “Hey, Margaret, could you rinse your plate next time?”
She blinked at me as if I’d suggested she dig a ditch. “Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed. “I thought you enjoyed keeping a tidy home. I wouldn’t want to take that satisfaction away from you.”
Then, she started criticizing my cooking.
One night, I made lemon herb chicken—one of Asher’s favorites. Margaret took a bite, grimaced, and set her fork down with a loud clank.
“Oh, darling,” she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. “I suppose you did your best.”
Asher chuckled nervously. “Mom, it’s not that bad.”
Margaret sighed and patted his hand. “You’re so sweet for defending her.”
I stared at them. Defending me? I pushed my plate away.
Margaret beamed. “You know, Asher, I could teach her some of my recipes. Simple things. Nothing too advanced.”
The worst part? Asher never defended me. When I complained, he just sighed. “Baby, it’s my mom. Be patient.”
I was patient. But Margaret’s behavior got worse every day.
“Asher, she treats me like a maid in my own home!”
He rubbed his temples. “She’s just set in her ways. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Then why do I feel like a guest in my own house?”
He exhaled slowly. “Look, it’s temporary. Can we not fight about this?”
I clenched my jaw. “Fine.”
But my patience was running out.
That night, I sat in the living room, staring at my cup of tea. Asher sat beside me, scrolling through his phone.
I turned to him. “Asher.”
“Hmm?”
“How long is she really staying?”
He hesitated. Too long.
“Asher.”
He sighed and set his phone down. “I don’t know.”
I straightened. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“Her renovations are taking longer than expected.”
I frowned. “She never even told me what’s being done to her house.”
He rubbed his face. “I don’t have all the details.”
“Then ask her.”
“Why does it matter?”
My stomach sank. “Asher?”
He swallowed. “It’s just that… I can’t tell her to leave.”
I froze. He looked scared.
“Asher, what’s going on?”
He didn’t answer, but something was very, very wrong.
The next morning, I was reaching for a sweater in the hall closet when I heard voices in the living room—low and tense.
I stopped.
“Asher, darling, you do know what happens if I don’t feel appreciated, don’t you?” Margaret’s voice was sweet and syrupy, like honey covering poison.
My stomach twisted.
“Mama,” Asher sighed, his voice tight, “what are you talking about?”
Margaret let out a dramatic sigh. “If I leave feeling neglected,” she said slowly, “I’m afraid my will might have to change.”
I sucked in a sharp breath.
I stayed silent. Then, Asher’s nervous voice. “Mom… you don’t have to do that.”
She clicked her tongue. “Oh, sweetheart, I don’t want to. But after everything I’ve done for you? The sacrifices I’ve made?” She sniffled. “If I feel abandoned, well… I don’t see the point of leaving my hard-earned money to someone who doesn’t care about me.”
Her words sent a chill down my spine. She was blackmailing him.
Asher exhaled slowly. “Mom, I care about you.”
“Then prove it,” she said softly. “Don’t push me away.”
I clapped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from gasping.
