Mother-in-Law Wants Our Home While Pushing Her Rundown ‘Palace’ on Us

**Diary Entry**

Sometimes I catch myself wondering: how do some people have the nerve to demand what isn’t theirs, all while hiding behind concern and age? My mother-in-law is a prime example. Her name is Margaret Williams, she’s sixty-seven, and for the past two years, she’s been fixated on one goal—to push me and my husband out of our two-bed flat in Manchester and move in herself, while graciously “gifting” us her crumbling cottage in the Lake District.

On the surface, she’s the picture of maternal care—a woman of her years, worn down by life. But beneath that act lies cold calculation. The house she’s insisting we take is, frankly, fit for demolition. Cracks snake through the foundation, the roof leaks, the window frames are rotted, and inside, it’s all draughts, damp, uneven floors, and the stench of mould. Margaret hasn’t lifted a finger to fix it in years—aside from tending her flowerbeds and pruning the rose bush—and she calls that “keeping up the place.”

Every time she visits, it starts the moment she steps through the door:
*“Oh, it’s so cosy here! So tidy, so modern. I’d love to live like this…”*
And then, as if it’s just an afterthought:
*“Maybe you two should move? I’d happily take this little flat off your hands…”*

At first, I stayed quiet. Then I tried brushing it off with a joke. Now, just the sight of her pitying gaze—full of that rehearsed *“Poor me, I’m so old, the house is too much…”*—makes my blood boil. Does she think flats clean themselves? That repairs happen by magic? Margaret genuinely believes a flat is some sort of serviced apartment with round-the-clock maids. She either doesn’t grasp—or pretends not to—how much work, money, and time we’ve poured into our home. As if any of it just *fell into our laps* rather than being earned.

We’ve offered her a simple solution:
*“Sell the cottage, put in a bit extra, and buy yourself a one-bed flat. No garden to worry about, proper heating, all the conveniences.”*
But no. In her mind, that derelict pile is worth a fortune—at least £300,000! Realistically, it’s barely half that. And even then, it wouldn’t cover a decent flat in the city. We’ve told her straight. It goes in one ear and out the other.

*“Who’d even want that house?”* I’ve tried reasoning.
*“It’s got *character*! Your Thomas took his first steps there! It just needs a bit of love,”* she insists.
*“Love”? The walls are literally crumbling.*

And still, it never ends. Every visit, the same song:
*“Your flat’s so lovely… Have you thought any more about it?”*

Finally, my husband snapped:
*“Mum, we’re not giving you the flat. And we’re not moving into that house. Stop asking.”*
She sulked off and hasn’t called in a week. Playing the wounded martyr—how *dare* her son and daughter-in-law deny her “happiness” by refusing to hand over the home we’ve built?

I’m exhausted. The sheer *audacity* of ignoring boundaries like this—we’re a young couple. We work, we plan, maybe kids aren’t far off. Where would we raise them? In a drafty, crack-riddled relic with a wood stove? Or pour everything we have into salvaging what should’ve been condemned years ago?

It’s not even the suggestion that galls me—it’s the guilt-tripping. As if *we’re* the selfish ones. As if our flat is her divine right, and we’re heartless monsters keeping her from “paradise.” All we want is to keep what’s ours.

We’ve agreed to drop the subject entirely. She knows where we stand. If the house is truly unbearable—*sell it*. Find something within her means. But she won’t live under our roof. Our home isn’t some consolation prize for ageing, nor a debt owed for motherhood. It’s *ours*. And we’re not giving it up.

**Lesson learned:** Age doesn’t entitle anyone to what you’ve built. Hold your ground.

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Mother-in-Law Wants Our Home While Pushing Her Rundown ‘Palace’ on Us