“It’s my car, and I decide who uses it!” declared my mother-in-law.
My husband, William, and I were a young couple, married for just three years. We lived in a small town near Bristol, where every penny counted. We’d taken out a mortgage on our flat and were scraping by to make the payments, cutting corners wherever we could. Life might have been easier if not for one mistake William made before our wedding. Together with his mother, Margaret, he’d 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 empty, and we were trapped in a situation we still couldn’t escape.
Every time we needed the car, Margaret had a thousand excuses. She’d gone to her cottage, or to visit friends, or claimed it was in the garage—always “forgetting” to tell us. “There are buses, take those!” she’d snap, even though we asked weeks in advance. If we somehow got the car, she’d ring constantly: “When are you bringing it back? Where are you? Why so long?” Not because she needed it—she just wanted it parked under her window. It wasn’t help; it was torment, and each time felt like a knife twisting in my heart.
Yet she had no qualms taking our money for the car’s upkeep. “You use it too, so pay up!” she’d say. Insurance, suspension repairs, new tyres—all on us. William and I had already poured more into that car than it was worth, yet we had no rights to it. I begged him to stop paying and save for our own. If the car meant so much to her, let her cover the costs! But William hesitated, unwilling to upset his mother. Watching him torn between me and her whims only deepened my despair.
Recently, our finances steadied enough to fix up the flat—nothing grand, just fresh walls and floors. To save on delivery, we asked to borrow Margaret’s car, giving her plenty of notice. When we arrived for the keys, the driveway was empty. She’d gone to visit a friend in the next town. William finally snapped. He called and shouted at her for the first time: “You’ve let us down again! How much longer?” She exploded: “It’s my car, I decide who uses it! You’ve no right to demand anything! And paying your share is only fair!” Her words stung like a slap. But something in William hardened. He said coldly, “Not another penny.”
When the time came to swap the tyres for winter, Margaret rang right on cue, demanding money. William threw her words back: “Your car, your responsibility.” She shrieked curses, calling us ungrateful, but he hung up. For the first time, he stood his ground, and I felt a glimmer of relief. We could finally save for our own car instead of pouring money into hers. Yet my relief was shadowed by grief—William had fallen out with his mother, and that rift pained me. I loathed conflict, but how much longer could we endure her selfishness?
My heart ached at the injustice. William and I worked ourselves ragged to pay the mortgage, building a life together, while Margaret saw us only as her car’s bank. Her promises were lies, her care a pretence. I was tired of feeling indebted for something that was never ours. William had taken a step toward freedom, but I feared this row was only the beginning. Margaret wasn’t one to back down, and her words—“It’s my car”—still echoed like a warning. But I swore it: we’d break free from this trap, even if we had to walk through fire. Our family deserved better, and I wouldn’t let her steal our future.
