I hate that my bossy mother-in-law treats me like my husband’s personal assistant. I am determined to remove her from our lives: HARRIET WALLACE

While I was wrapping Christmas presents, trying to send a long-overdue work email, and having to pick up my three kids from school, my phone rang. Again. My heart sinks when my mother-in-law’s name appears. This is the third time she’s called today.

“Oh hello, Harriet*, is this a bad time?” she trills. “I just didn’t want to call Philip because I know how busy he is.

I sigh. She wouldn’t dream of disturbing my husband during the work day, but she thinks it’s totally okay to call me while I’m working from home. “I’m very busy too, Mary,” I said, silently seething. “But how can I help you?

“Ah, well, I know I’m seeing Philip later tonight – it’s so nice of him to take the time to see us – but I need his menu choices for the Christmas party. I’m also waiting to hear what gift he might like.

Couldn’t she have waited until later, I thought, when Philip, who has been out every night this week, comes to help her move furniture?

It drives me crazy when my overbearing Scottish mother-in-law treats me like my husband’s personal assistant.

She expects me to make all the arrangements on his behalf, from Sunday lunch to scheduling when he is free to talk to her in the evening.

Then there are the multiple messages and calls about what to buy him and the kids for birthdays. Not to mention asking about his new job or how his last doctor’s appointment went. And so on.

And things get even worse at Christmas, with double the harassment and newspaper requests. After 15 years of marriage, I’m frankly fed up.

It’s not like I didn’t ask Philip, an accountant, to take over rather than let me put up with his mother’s demands.

The truth is he just can’t be bothered to answer every call. And when he doesn’t answer, she always calls me – because I’m too polite to do the same.

The fact that he is the main breadwinner probably has something to do with his approach, which increases my resentment. She is the last of the generation where women did not work, but rather ran their husbands’ lives, and she seems to think it is my duty to comply.

She never really understood that I am independent and work from home, and sees me as the main “housewife”, i.e. the go-to person for everything.

She marvels that Philip does his fair share of cooking and school pickups. She thinks he deserves a medal.

And while she has never openly criticized the fact that I work, she clearly expects me to put the kids first. Philip answered the phone one day while I was on a work trip and she asked me where I was.

During this time, she never questioned Philip’s absence or considered it a dereliction of duty if he did not look after the children 24/7.

Philip’s father, a retired accountant, barely speaks and seems happy to have his life micromanaged by her.

And Philip also likes a quiet life so, even though he admits that she is extremely bossy, he will never remonstrate with her or dare suggest that she bothers me less.

This bothers me, to say the least. The fact that he finds it easier to passively ignore her rather than defend me when I’m feeling stressed just enables him – and leaves me furious.

Last week she called while she was shopping. “I just wanted to check if Philip needed any other skydivers. They have lovely cashmere ones at John Lewis,” she asks.

“Mary, I just had to interrupt a Zoom meeting to take this call. I thought maybe it was urgent because I saw you called three times. Can it wait? I’m cracking up.

“Oh, well, I didn’t realize how busy you were.” I guess it can wait…but what about the riders?

Later, when Philip comes home, I ask him if he called his mother today. “I didn’t have the chance,” he told me. “You know what she looks like.”

When I tell him she interrupted my meeting to talk about Christmas knitting, he just laughs.

“It’s not funny!” » I said. “Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I should have to take care of all these little things for you.” Emotional labor, I think it’s called. “When are you going to step in and take care of her?” I scold him.

It wasn’t always like this. I remember that when Philip brought me home to meet his parents, in their rambling old vicarage, Mary and I got along famously. We talked for hours about everything from our favorite wallpaper to the books we were reading.

I found it quite endearing that she was so interested in the lives of Philip and his sister Matilda. Little did I know how much of a poisoned chalice it would become.

Looking back, it was when we were planning our wedding that the interference started.

She expected me to consult her on what the ushers would wear, what kind of jokes the best man would be allowed to make, and even to arrange hair appointments for her extended family who were visiting from Scotland. I knew she wouldn’t dream of asking Philip to do such things.

Then, when I took maternity leave to have the children, she started inviting herself to stay and took great pleasure in telling me how to raise them. Everything from my breastfeeding technique to weaning was scrutinized.

Things seem to have gone from bad to worse since then, she expects me to be the source of all things Philip, while her prodigal son stays quiet.

She would never dare criticize him or complain that he didn’t respond to her, and constantly makes excuses for him.

She considers me her ally, simply because I too have a uterus.

That evening, as we sat down to eat, the phone rang. I know it must be Mary because it’s always her or the doctor’s office that calls the landline.

“Ignore it,” I tell Philip, but as the phone continues to ring, he puts down his knife and fork and goes to pick up the receiver.

“Tell him I don’t know what damn sweater you want, and I don’t care if we eat pork or beef for lunch on Sunday!” » I shout.

Could this be the Christmas I finally break and tell him to get out of our lives?

• Harriet Wallace is a pseudonym and all names have been changed.