“It’s my car, and I decide who gets to use it!” declared my mother-in-law.
My husband, Thomas, and I are a young couple, married for only three years. We live in a small town near Manchester, where every penny counts. We’ve taken out a mortgage on our flat and are stretching every pound to make the payments, cutting corners wherever we can. Life would be a little easier if not for one mistake Thomas made before we tied the knot. Together with his mother, Margaret, he bought a car, sinking most of his savings into it. The car was registered in her name, and she swore she’d let us use it whenever we needed. Those promises turned out to be empty words, and now we’re trapped in a cycle we can’t escape.
Every time we need the car, Margaret comes up with countless excuses. She’s either gone to her countryside cottage, visiting friends, or claims the car’s in the garage and she “forgot” to tell us. “There’s always the bus!” she snaps, even though we ask well in advance—sometimes weeks ahead. On the rare occasion we do get the car, she calls nonstop: “When are you bringing it back? Where are you? Why are you taking so long?” Not because she actually needs it—she just feels better when it’s parked outside her house. It’s not help—it’s torture, and every time feels like a knife to the heart.
Meanwhile, Margaret has no issue demanding money from us for the car’s upkeep. “You use it too, so you should pay!” she insists. Insurance, suspension repairs, new tyres—it’s all on us. Thomas and I have already put more into that car than it’s worth, yet we have no rights to it. I’ve begged my husband to stop paying and save for our own car. If she treasures it so much, let her foot the bills! But Thomas hesitated, afraid of upsetting his mother. Watching him torn between me and her whims only deepened my frustration.
Recently, our finances improved slightly, and we decided to renovate the flat. Nothing grand—just fresh paint and new flooring. To save on delivery, we planned to use Margaret’s car to pick up supplies, asking her weeks in advance. When we arrived for the keys, the driveway was empty. Margaret was gone—off to visit a friend in the next town over. Thomas finally snapped. He called her and shouted, “You’ve let us down again! How long is this going to go on?” She exploded in return: “It’s my car, and I decide who uses it! You don’t get to dictate terms! And as for the money, it’s only fair since you benefit!” Her words stung like a slap. But something in Thomas shifted. He coldly replied, “Not a penny more.”
Winter came, and right on cue, Margaret came demanding money for new tyres. Thomas threw her own words back at her: “Your car, your responsibility.” She screamed about ungratefulness, but he simply hung up. For the first time, he stood his ground, and I felt a wave of relief. We could finally save for our own car instead of pouring money into hers. But my relief was shadowed by guilt—Thomas’s rift with his mother cut deep. I despise conflict, but how much longer could we endure her selfishness?
My heart aches at the injustice. Thomas and I work ourselves ragged to pay the mortgage and build a life together, yet Margaret sees us only as her personal ATM. Her promises were hollow, her care nonexistent. I’m tired of feeling indebted for something that was never ours. Thomas took a step toward our freedom, but I fear this fight is only the beginning. Margaret isn’t one to back down, and her words—”It’s my car!”—still echo in my mind like a warning. But I swear this: we will break free from this trap, even if it means walking through fire. Our family deserves better, and I won’t let her steal our future.
Sometimes, the hardest lesson is learning when to stop giving—because some people will never stop taking.
