When my wife’s mom, Catherine, moved in “just for a few months,” I didn’t think much of it. Rachel, my wife, was happy to have her around, and with me hunting for a higher-paying IT job to cover our mounting bills, I figured extra family support couldn’t hurt.
But interviews quickly turned into disasters. Each time I logged on, Catherine would crank the TV, blast ’70s music, or chatter loudly on the phone. After one failed interview, I politely asked if she could keep it quiet—just thirty minutes of peace. She smiled, apologized, and promised it wouldn’t happen again.
I believed her. That was my mistake.
The next time, she was louder than ever. Then again. And again. At first, I thought it was forgetfulness, but soon it felt deliberate—as if she wanted me stuck in my low-paying job, dependent, under her roof.
One day, after yet another ruined call, I’d had enough. I set up my laptop at a café, nailed the interview, and finally landed the role we desperately needed. When I came home with the offer letter in hand, Catherine tried to downplay it, muttering about “luck” and how “some companies aren’t picky.”
That’s when I called her out—firmly but calmly. I told her I knew exactly what she’d been doing, and that her chaos wasn’t going to control our lives anymore. Rachel backed me up, and Catherine went silent.
For the first time, the house felt ours again. And for me, the job wasn’t just a paycheck—it was proof I’d taken back control.
