**Diary Entry – 22nd March 2024**
Sometimes I wonder how some people have the nerve to demand what isn’t theirs while hiding behind concern and age. My mother-in-law, Evelyn Harris, is a perfect example. At sixty-seven, she’s spent the last two years nursing one singular dream—to push me and my husband out of our two-bed flat in Manchester and squeeze herself in, graciously “gifting” us her crumbling cottage in the outskirts of Cheshire instead.
On the surface, she’s the caring mum, a woman worn down by life. But beneath that act is pure calculation. That cottage she’s so eager to palm off on us ought to have been condemned years ago. Cracks run through the foundation, the roof leaks, the window frames are rotten, and inside it’s freezing, mouldy, with uneven floors and a stench of damp. Evelyn’s done nothing to fix it in decades—unless you count pruning the rose bushes and trimming the blackcurrant bush. That’s the extent of her upkeep.
Every time she visits, she starts the same way:
*“Oh, it’s so cosy here! Everything’s so neat and tidy. I’d love to live like this…”*
And then, ever so casually:
*“Maybe you should consider moving? I’d happily take this lovely flat off your hands…”*
At first, I stayed quiet. Then I tried brushing it off with jokes. Now, just her pitying look—*“Oh, I’m so old, no strength left… the cottage is such a burden…”*—makes my blood boil. As if flats clean themselves! As if dust vanishes on its own! Does she think our place runs like some posh hotel with round-the-clock maids? She either doesn’t grasp (or won’t admit) that we’ve poured time, money, and effort into this home. None of it just *fell into our laps*.
We’ve offered her a reasonable solution:
*“Sell the cottage, top it up a bit, and buy a one-bed flat. You’d have warmth, no garden hassle, proper plumbing.”*
No chance. She insists her wreck is worth a fortune—no less than £300k! In reality, I’d be shocked if it fetched half that. 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 place?”* I’ve tried.
*“It’s got character! Your Henry was born there! It just needs a bit of love,”* she insists.
*Love?* The walls are literally crumbling.
And still, every visit. The same tune:
*“Your flat’s so lovely. Have you thought any more about it?”*
Last week, my husband finally snapped.
*“Mum, we’re not giving you the flat. And we’re not moving into that cottage. Drop it.”*
She huffed off, hasn’t called in a week. Playing the wounded martyr—*how dare her son and daughter-in-law refuse to “bless” her with the home they’ve worked for?*
I’m exhausted. How can someone be so wilfully blind to boundaries? We’re a young couple building a future, maybe even planning kids soon. Where would we raise them? In a draughty, cracked-shell of a house? Or pour our savings into a lost cause?
What galls me most isn’t her asking—it’s the guilt-trip. As if *we’re* the selfish ones, withholding her “salvation.” All we want is to keep what we’ve built.
For now, we’ve agreed to shut the conversation down. She knows where we stand. If the cottage is truly unbearable, she can sell it and find something within her means. But she won’t live under our roof. Our home isn’t a trophy for ageing or a debt for raising a son. It’s *ours*. And we won’t surrender it.
**Lesson learned: Kindness shouldn’t mean surrender. Some lines must stay drawn.**
