My mother-in-law has been seething with rage for three months now. It all began when my husband and I dared to go on holiday instead of handing her money for home repairs. Her flat in an old house on the outskirts of Manchester isn’t falling apart, but she’s convinced it needs refurbishing every five years. Yet she spends her own money on anything—trips to the seaside, new dresses—so long as it satisfies her whims.
We aren’t struggling, but we don’t live lavishly either. We’ve only just paid off our mortgage, and with two school-aged children—our daughter in Year Seven, our son in Year Four—this was the first proper holiday we’d taken in years. And that decision, it seems, tore our lives apart.
While we were paying off the mortgage, holidays were out of the question. At most, we’d take a few days at my parents’ place in nearby Birmingham. We’d drop the children off with them for a week, then collect them. My parents have a big house with a garden, and the kids adore it—fishing with Grandad, Grandma’s homemade pies, fresh vegetables from the garden. But for my husband and me, it wasn’t a break—just a change of scenery. This year, we decided to do things differently. We emptied the savings jar and drove to my cousin’s place in Brighton, right by the sea.
Some might find it odd that our children spend summers at my parents’. But for us, it’s the norm. My mother-in-law, Margaret, made it clear from the start: she wouldn’t be helping with the grandchildren. She raised her own and now wanted to live for herself. We respected that and never imposed. I understood—my husband has a brother and sister, and three children is no joke. I’ve got two myself, so I know the struggle. That’s why Margaret rarely saw the kids—she’d visit for an hour, play with them, then leave for her own affairs.
Four years ago, she retired.
“Finally! A proper rest—time to enjoy myself!” she declared with a triumphant smile.
Her plans were grand: swimming, theatre trips, holidays, visiting friends in other cities, spa retreats. She indulged as if making up for lost time. But there was a hitch—her pension couldn’t keep up. The children had to chip in. My husband’s sister refused outright—she had her own expenses. His older brother sent money now and then. We couldn’t afford to help—not with the mortgage—and Margaret knew it.
Instead, she asked for other favours—picking things up, dropping her off, fixing bits and bobs around the house. When the mortgage was nearly paid off, she started talking about renovations. Her flat, she insisted, needed updating. Ours wasn’t exactly pristine either—we’d only done it up after buying. But we agreed: the holiday came first. Her requests simply slipped our minds.
We didn’t tell Margaret our plans. There were no plants or pets to worry about, and the children were with us. We never shared much anyway. We locked up, grabbed our suitcases, and left.
The holiday was paradise—until Margaret needed my husband’s help. She rang, and Thomas was honest: we were in Brighton. Used to us visiting my parents for a weekend, she asked when we’d be back. When he said weeks, she demanded he come up for the weekend—Birmingham to Manchester was only a few hours by train.
Thomas laughed.
“Mum, we’re at the seaside! What weekend?”
Coldly, she replied,
“Right,” and hung up.
The storm hit the moment we got home. That same day, Margaret burst in, furious.
“You didn’t even tell me!” she shouted.
“What was there to tell? That we went on holiday? You don’t announce your trips, and I don’t make a fuss,” Thomas shot back.
“Where did you get the money? You’ve only just finished paying the mortgage!”
“We emptied the savings jar. What’s the problem?” He still didn’t see it.
“Oh, so there’s money for holidays, but none for your own mother’s home?” she spat.
Thomas lost his temper.
“I don’t ask what you spend your money on at those spa retreats! We go away once in our lives, and you kick off!”
“Ungrateful!” she snapped, slamming the door behind her.
Since then—silence. No calls, no visits, not even a birthday message for our son. Now his brother and sister ring just to lecture us on how selfish we are. His sister-in-law, who’s never once helped or visited, is especially vocal. Yet somehow, she’s the one who feels entitled to judge.
Thomas and I stand firm—we’ve done nothing wrong. Margaret’s taken offence over nothing. We aren’t obliged to fund her whims—we’ve got our own lives, our own children. My parents back us completely, saying we were right. I couldn’t care less what his siblings think. But this feud, this black cloud, hangs over us, and I don’t know how to bring peace back to the family.