**Diary Entry**
“It’s my car, and I decide who uses it!” my mother-in-law snapped.
My husband, James, and I are a young couple, married for just three years. We live in a small town near Manchester, where every penny counts. We’ve taken out a mortgage on our flat and scrape by, cutting corners wherever we can. Life would be a bit easier if not for one mistake James made before our wedding. He and his mother, Margaret, bought a car together, sinking most of his savings into it. We’re stuck in a trap we can’t escape.
Every time we need the car, Margaret has an excuse. She’s either gone to her cottage, visiting friends, or claims the car’s in the garage—somehow “forgetting” to tell us. “Take the bus!” she’ll say, even when we ask weeks in advance. If we do manage to borrow it, she calls nonstop: “When are you bringing it back? Where are you? What’s taking so long?” Not because she needs it—she just sleeps better knowing it’s parked outside her house. It’s not help—it’s torture, and every time feels like a knife twisting deeper.
Worse still, Margaret doesn’t hesitate to demand money for repairs. “You use it too, so pay up!” she insists. Insurance, suspension fixes, new tyres—we’ve covered it all. We’ve put more into that car than it’s worth but have no right to it. I’ve begged James to stop paying and save for our own car—if she loves it so much, let her pay! But he wavered, afraid to upset her. Watching him torn between me and her whims only made me feel more hopeless.
Recently, our finances improved slightly, and we decided to renovate the flat—nothing fancy, just fresh walls and flooring. To save on delivery, we wanted to borrow Margaret’s car, asking well in advance. When we arrived for the keys, the driveway was empty. She’d vanished—off to a friend’s in Leeds. James finally snapped. He rang her, shouting, “You’ve let us down again! How much longer is this going on?” She exploded: “It’s my car, and I’ll decide! You don’t get to dictate terms! Paying your share is the least you can do!” Her words stung, but something in James hardened. He replied coldly, “Not another pound.”
When winter tyres were needed, Margaret demanded money right on cue. James reminded her: “Your car, your responsibility.” She shrieked, calling us ungrateful, but he hung up. For once, he stood his ground—and I finally breathed. Now we can save for our own car, free from hers. But my relief is shadowed by guilt—James and his mother are at odds, and the rift between them aches in my chest. I loathe conflict, but how much longer could we endure her selfishness?
It kills me—we work ourselves ragged to pay the mortgage, building a life, while Margaret sees us as nothing but a wallet for her car. Her promises were empty, her care a sham. I’m tired of feeling indebted for something that was never ours. James took the first step toward freedom, but I fear this fight is just the beginning. She won’t back down, and her words—“It’s my car”—still echo like a warning. But I swear this: we’ll break free, even if it burns. Our family deserves better, and I won’t let her steal our future.
