So, my boyfriend Oliver is from a little village near York, and this whole thing with his mum, Margaret, has been a right mess. Me and Ollie have been together just under a year—moved in together not long ago in a tiny one-bed flat on the outskirts of London. We’re saving for a mortgage, so money’s tight, and hosting anyone properly just isn’t on the cards right now.
Margaret’s been down to London before—stayed with Ollie’s sister, Charlotte, who’s got her own place, two kids, the lot. This time, she was here for ten days. We saw each other a couple of times, but apparently that wasn’t enough. She’s proper upset with me because I didn’t invite her round.
Thing is, I *have* met his parents. Went up to Yorkshire last summer—Margaret laid on this massive spread, treated me like family. She was gutted we didn’t stay over, but I promised once we were properly married, I’d come back and spend proper time with them. Since then, she’d ring now and then, checking in, like she was trying to bond.
So when she texted saying she was coming down to see Charlotte and have a proper London visit, I thought—fair enough. Ollie even took time off work to show her around. They did the whole tourist bit—walked down Oxford Street, hit up the museums, even caught a film. Me? I stayed out of the way. Work’s mad, and Charlotte’s husband barely showed his face—just had a cuppa with her and kept his distance. But somehow, *I’m* the one she’s got it in for now.
On her last day, we all went out—grabbed lunch at a café, walked along the Thames, saw her off at King’s Cross. Thought we’d done alright. Then bam—overheard later she’s been moaning, “That girl didn’t even let me step foot in her flat!” And like—what was there to see? A cramped one-bed in some dodgy ex-council building? Second-hand furniture and a kitchen the size of a postage stamp? Course I didn’t invite her. Not ’cause I’m hiding anything—just doesn’t feel like *my* place to show off. When we’ve got our own proper home, fine.
Ollie was with her every spare minute. Charlotte dropped everything to play tour guide. But nah—Margaret’s fuming because I didn’t roll out the red carpet in a flat that isn’t even ours.
Look, I respect her. But family isn’t about orders or keeping score. It’s about trust. If she starts this whole thing with digs and guilt trips, how’s that meant to end well?
So—what do you reckon? Has she got a right to be offended? Or is she overreacting? And can I even fix this now she’s decided I’m “ungrateful” from the jump?