My Husband’s Aunt Moved In—And She Had My Mother-in-Law’s Blessing
I’m not a drama queen. I don’t nag my husband over every little thing, track his every move, or snoop through his phone. I work, raise our kids, and support him when times are tough. But everyone has their limits. Even the most patient woman reaches a point where something inside just *clicks*. And for me, that moment came after a call from Aunt Margaret.
My name’s Emily. I’m thirty-six. Married to James for nearly a decade, with two sons—Oliver and Ethan, both in primary school. We live in a flat my mother-in-law left us when she moved in with her daughter. My sister-in-law already has three kids and another on the way. On top of that, we’ve got a hefty mortgage on a one-bed flat that eats a chunk of our income every month. I’m a nurse; James works for a construction firm. We’re not living large, but we manage. Visiting family is rare—we just don’t have the time. So, I booked time off over Christmas, dreaming of ice skating, cinema trips, and finally catching up with friends.
Enter Aunt Margaret, James’s aunt—his mother’s sister. My mother-in-law’s fine—rarely calls, keeps her distance. But Margaret? She’s a whole different story. The second her lightbulb flickers, her chair creaks, or it drizzles outside, James gets summoned. And like a well-trained retriever, he drops everything and bolts over. It’s always something: sparks flying from sockets, a wardrobe collapsing, or furniture that *urgently* needs shifting.
So, there we were—Boxing Day, second day of holiday. Kids bundled up, cinema tickets in my purse, ice skates in the boot. Then James’s face does that thing.
“Aunt Margaret called,” he says. “Needs help moving furniture. I’ve rung Dave—he’ll meet me there.”
“You’re joking,” I say. “We had plans!”
“We’ll go later,” he brushes me off. “Mum rang too. The armchairs are heavy, and Aunt Margaret’s got a bad back. Hiring movers costs a fortune. Come on, Em, just one day—”
*One day*. Always *one day*. One for repairs, one for painting, one for shovelling snow, one for assembling flat-pack furniture. Meanwhile, the kids can just tag along with Mum, who gets to explain—*again*—why Dad’s missing.
I silently piled the kids into the car. If the day was ruined, at least they’d get some fresh air. We arrived—Aunt Margaret wasn’t expecting us. She scowled.
“What’re you lot doing here? The car’ll be overloaded—I need a lift to the cottage. The armchairs are going there.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Stay here, then. Our plans are shot, but the kids can at least run around.”
She huffed but stayed quiet. We drove to the cottage. The boys hurled themselves into snowdrifts, finally laughing. Then the phone rang.
“The drive’s buried,” Aunt Margaret announced. “My boys and their wives are coming up for a break. Clear the snow for them, would you?”
That’s when I snapped.
“Oh no,” I barked into the phone. “You’ve got two grown sons—let them and their wives shovel! If they’re here to relax, they can pitch in too. Are we your free labour now?”
I hung up. Snatched James’s phone and chucked it into the snow. It died on impact. Then I turned on him, years of resentment boiling over:
“Never. Again. You’re a husband and father, not her on-call handyman! And tell Dave to go home to his wife—enough playing serf for your family!”
We left. The boys were chuffed—they’d at least had a snowball fight. I was drained but calm. Hours later, my mother-in-law called.
“You’ve upset poor Margaret!” she wailed. “She’s in tears, on valerian drops, migraine pounding. Her daughters-in-law would *never* speak to her like that!”
Know what I did? For the first time in years, I stayed calm.
“Margaret’s never once asked her sons for help,” I said. “She *pities* them. But not James—oh no, he’s nearby, so he’ll do. Well, *not anymore*.”
Then I hung up. Not rudely, but firmly.
Silence ever since. Aunt Margaret doesn’t call. If we pass on the street, she gives a frosty nod and strides off. *Good riddance*.
Thing is, people are scared to speak up. Scared of offence, scared of drama. Not me. I’ve swallowed it for years. Now? I’m done.
Some relatives? Give ‘em an inch, they’ll take a mile. So don’t hold back. Don’t let them wipe their feet on you. Respect starts with boundaries—draw them, or they’ll walk all over you.
So—did I do the right thing? Or should I have just bitten my tongue and carried on?