**Sorry, Mum: No More Drop-InsNot Today, Tomorrow, or Next Year**
No, Mum. You wont be popping round anymore. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. A story where patience finally packed its bags and left.
I spent ages pondering how to begin this little saga, and every time, the same two words popped up: *cheek* and *blind loyalty*. One from my mother-in-law, the other from my husband. And wedged in the middle? Yours truly. A woman who tried her best to be kind, polite, and graciousuntil the day I realised that if I stayed quiet any longer, our so-called family home would just be a fancy storage unit for everyone elses leftovers.
I still cant fathom how someone can waltz into another persons house and treat it like their personal charity shop. But thats precisely what my mother-in-law did. And all for her darling daughter. My husbands sister.
Every visit ended with something mysteriously vanishingthe last of the Sunday roast, an entire cottage pie from the oven, and once, even my brand-new hair straightener (still in its box!). But apparently, *»Charlottes hair is such a mess, and you barely go anywhere, anyway.»*
I bit my tongue. Gritted my teeth. Brought it up with my husband. Hed just sigh and say, *»Thats just Mumshe doesnt mean anything by it. Well replace it.»*
But the final straw came just before our fifth anniversary. Wed planned something speciala proper date night at a posh restaurant, like we used to. Id already picked out the perfect dress and just needed the right pair of heels to match. So I splurged. A stunning, ludicrously expensive pair Id been eyeing since last summer. Left them boxed up in the bedroom, waiting for the big night.
But life, ever the comedian, had other ideas.
That day, I got stuck at work and asked my husband, Henry, to fetch our daughter from nursery. He agreedthen, naturally, something *»urgent»* came up, so he rang his mum. Handed her our keys so she could collect little Sophie and wait at ours till I got back.
When I walked in, I beelined for the bedroom. My heart sank. The shoebox had vanished.
*»Henry, where are my new shoes?»* I asked, already knowing the answer.
*»How should I know?»* He shrugged.
*»Was your mum here?»*
*»Yeah, she picked up Sophie, had a cuppa, then left.»*
*»And the keys?»* I kept my voice eerily calm.
*»I gave them to her. What else could I do?»*
I grabbed my phone, dialled her number. She answered instantly.
*»Lovely evening, isnt it?»* I said, sweet as arsenic. *»Im sure you know why Im calling.»*
*»No, actually, I dont,»* she replied, without a hint of remorse.
*»Where. Are. My. Shoes?»*
*»Oh, I gave them to Charlotte. Youve got far too many pairs, and shes got nothing decent for graduation.»*
And then*click*. Silence. No apology, no shame. Just gone.
Henry, predictably, sighed. *»Well get you another pair, love. Dont make a scene. Shes my mum.»*
I stood up, took his arm, and marched him straight to Selfridges. Right to the display of the exact designer heels Id been stalking online for months. The price tag nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.
*»Eleanor, thats half my months wages!»* he choked.
*»You said wed buy them. So we are,»* I replied, smiling like a cat with cream.
And buy them he didsigning his own receipt for years of turning a blind eye.
But the drama wasnt over. On the way home, his phone buzzed. A text from Mum:
*»Dropping by tonight. Got stacks of veg cluttering my freezerIll stash them at yours and fetch them in a month or so.»*
I watched his face as he read it. The way his jaw clenched. Then, for the first time ever, he dialled her number and said, firm as oak:
*»Mum, you wont be dropping by. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year. Because your last favour cost us a small fortune.»*
He hung up. I looked at himand for the first time in years, I felt like we were truly partners. A home where the door stays firmly shut to freeloaders but swings wide open for those who actually belong.
