My Mother-in-Law Moved In “Temporarily”—Six Months Later, She’s Still Here, Eating Everything in Sight and Contributing Nothing
When my mother-in-law showed up at our door six months ago with a suitcase and a sweet smile, saying she’d only be staying “a couple of weeks” while her house underwent renovations, I didn’t think twice. We had always gotten along — polite, distant, nothing to suggest trouble. I figured, How bad could two weeks be?
Six months later, I’m a shell of the woman I was, my patience worn thin and my nerves frayed beyond repair.
The renovation excuse seemed legitimate at first: rotting floors, leaking pipes, a house on the brink of collapse. She hired contractors and made herself right at home—with us. Only, what we really welcomed into our house wasn’t a temporary guest in need, but a full-fledged freeloader.
I’ve battled health issues my whole life. Strict diet, specific foods, small, scheduled meals — it’s my normal. I plan ahead carefully, prepping everything into labeled containers to avoid daily grocery trips and to stick to my routine. I cook separately for my husband and child, and carefully prepare my own meals.
But when Margaret (my mother-in-law) moved in, my system disintegrated overnight. She started helping herself to anything and everything in the fridge — especially the food I needed to survive.
At first, I thought it was innocent. Then I noticed a pattern: she raided the fridge at 2 AM like clockwork, polishing off my meals—zucchini, turkey, greens, oat milk, everything. When I confronted her, she shrugged and said, “Back in the day, people ate what they had without complaining.”
I tried explaining, calmly at first. “Margaret, I have medical needs. I can’t just eat anything. I need that food.” She nodded as if she understood… and then continued clearing out my containers nightly. I even labeled everything clearly—but it didn’t matter. She still ate it and smugly commented, “Avocados are disgusting,” after devouring them.
It became clear it wasn’t forgetfulness—it was deliberate. She believed my condition was made up, a form of fussiness she could mock and ignore.
I started falling apart. Weakness, exhaustion, flare-ups—my body couldn’t keep up. I lived in a state of panic, afraid to open the fridge and find it empty again.
I finally turned to my husband, desperate. He listened quietly and said, “Just cook more. She’s getting older — she needs to eat, too.”
I nearly lost it. “David, I can barely keep up with what I already cook. And we’re stretching our budget thin as it is! Your mother hasn’t even bought a single loaf of bread since she moved in!”
Meanwhile, Margaret spent her days lounging on the couch, binge-watching daytime TV, acting like she was a guest in a hotel.
Out of pure survival instinct, I struck a deal with a local café. The staff took pity on me and agreed to prepare simple meals I could eat. But eating out daily is bleeding us dry financially. It’s not sustainable.
I even thought about putting a lock on the fridge—or finding a rental room somewhere. But where could I go with a child? I felt trapped.
Margaret refused to lift a finger. “I spent years cooking for others. Now I’m enjoying being served,” she declared, refusing to help or contribute.
The breaking point came yesterday. I watched her sit down at the table and eat an entire container of my prepped meal without even blinking. She didn’t ask. She didn’t apologize. She acted like she had every right.
I locked myself in the bathroom and cried quietly so no one would hear.
Now, finally, my husband’s starting to wake up. He came home and found his dinner missing, too. He’s been making his own food since, realizing his mother’s not a harmless old lady—she’s a selfish mooch.
But realization alone isn’t enough. Margaret is still here. Still eating. Still refusing to acknowledge the damage she’s causing.
If my husband doesn’t find the courage to set boundaries, I will. Because soon he’ll have to make a choice: feed his freeloading mother or keep his family together.