My mother-in-law hasn’t spoken to us in three months. It all began when my husband and I dared to go on holiday instead of giving her money for home improvements. Her flat in an old terrace house on the outskirts of Manchester isn’t falling apart, but she’s convinced it needs redecorating every five years. Meanwhile, she spends her own money on whatever she fancies—trips to the seaside, new dresses—anything to indulge her whims.
We’re not struggling, but we don’t throw money around either. We’ve only just paid off the mortgage, and with two school-age children—our daughter in Year 6, our son in Year 3—every penny counts. This year, for the first time in years, we decided to take a proper holiday. And somehow, that choice turned everything upside down.
While we were paying off the mortgage, holidays were out of the question. At best, we’d spend a few days at my parents’ in Liverpool. We’d drop the kids off, leave them for a week, then pick them up. My parents have a big house with a garden, and the kids love it—fishing with Granddad, Nana’s homemade pies, fresh veg from the garden. But for my husband and me, it wasn’t a break—just a change of scenery. This time, we decided to do things differently. We broke open the savings jar and went to stay with my cousin in Brighton, by the sea.
Some might find it odd that our children spend summers with my parents, but for us, it’s normal. My mother-in-law, Margaret, made it clear from the start: we couldn’t rely on her for childcare. She raised her own kids and now wants to live for herself. We accepted it and never bothered her. I understood—my husband has two siblings, and three children are no joke. I’ve got two myself; I know how it is. So Margaret rarely saw the grandkids—she’d pop in for an hour, play with them, then dash off to her own life.
Four years ago, Margaret retired.
“Finally, some well-earned rest! I’m going to enjoy myself!” she announced, beaming.
Her plans were grand—swimming, theatre trips, holidays to visit friends in other cities, spa weekends. She lived like she was making up for lost time. But there was a catch: her pension didn’t stretch far enough. 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 contribute—we were still paying off the mortgage, and Margaret knew that.
Instead, she asked for other help—fetching things, driving her somewhere, fixing something. When the mortgage was almost done, she started talking about redecorating. Her flat, she said, needed updating. Ours wasn’t exactly pristine either—we’d only freshened it up after buying. But we decided: a holiday mattered more. We simply forgot about her requests.
We didn’t tell Margaret our plans. We don’t have plants or pets, and the kids weren’t with us. We’re not in the habit of sharing every detail. We locked up the house, grabbed our suitcases, and left.
Everything was perfect—until Margaret needed help. She rang, and my husband, Oliver, told her honestly: we were in Brighton. She was used to us visiting my parents for a few days, so she asked when we’d be back. When he said a few weeks, she asked him to come up for the weekend—it’s only four hours from Liverpool to Manchester.
Oliver laughed.
“Mum, we’re at the seaside! What weekend?”
She replied coldly,
“Right,” and hung up.
When we got home, the storm hit. That same day, Margaret barged in, furious.
“You didn’t even tell me!” she shrieked.
“Tell you what? That we went on holiday? You never tell us about your trips, and I don’t complain,” Oliver said, baffled.
“Where did you even get the money? You’ve only just finished paying the mortgage!”
“Used up our savings, decided to treat ourselves. What’s the problem?” Oliver still didn’t see it.
“So you’ve got money for a holiday, but none for your own mother’s home?” she snapped.
Oliver lost his temper.
“I don’t ask where your money goes on spa weekends! We take one holiday in years, and you kick off!”
“Ungrateful!” she spat, then slammed the door.
Since then, she hasn’t spoken to us. Won’t pick up the phone, won’t answer the door, didn’t even wish our son a happy birthday. Now Oliver’s brother and sister ring to lecture us on being selfish—especially his sister-in-law, who’s never lifted a finger to help Margaret, never visits, never invites her over. But of course, she feels entitled to judge.
Oliver and I know we’ve done nothing wrong. Margaret’s upset over nothing. We’re not obliged to fund her whims—we’ve got our own lives, our own kids. My parents back us, saying we did the right thing. I couldn’t care less what Oliver’s siblings think. But this argument hangs over us like a dark cloud, and I don’t know how to bring peace back to the family.