**Diary Entry, November 15th**
*”It’s my car, and I decide who gets to use it!”* That’s what my mother-in-law snapped at us yesterday.
My husband, Oliver, and I have been married for just three years. We live in a small town outside Manchester, where every penny counts. We’ve taken on a mortgage for our flat, and now we’re scrimping and saving to keep up with the payments. Life would’ve been a bit easier if not for one mistake Oliver made before we wed. He and his mother, Margaret, bought a car together, sinking most of his savings into it. The car was registered under her name, and she swore she’d let us use it whenever we needed. Empty promises. Now we’re trapped in this mess with no way out.
Every time we ask for the car, Margaret has an excuse. She’s off to her cottage, visiting friends, or claims the car’s in the garage—conveniently “forgetting” to tell us. *“There are buses, take those!”* she scoffs, even when we ask weeks in advance. On the rare occasion we do get the keys, she bombards us with calls: *“When are you bringing it back? Where are you? What’s taking so long?”* Not because she needs it—just because she sleeps better knowing it’s parked under her window. It’s not help; it’s torture, and every time, it cuts like a knife.
Yet she has no issue demanding money for upkeep. *“You use it too, so you pay!”* Insurance, suspension repairs, new tyres—all on us. Oliver and I have put more into that car than it’s worth, but we’ve no right to it. I’ve begged him to stop paying and save for our own car—if she loves hers so much, let her cover the costs! But Oliver hesitated, reluctant to upset his mum. Watching him torn between her whims and me only made the despair worse.
Recently, our finances stabilised, and we planned to renovate 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 driven off to visit a friend in the next town. Oliver finally snapped. He rang her and shouted, *“You’ve let us down again! How much longer?”* Her reply was icy: *“It’s my car, and I decide who uses it! You’ve no right to demand anything! And paying your share is fair—you benefit too!”* Her words stung. But something in Oliver shifted. Coldly, he said, *“Not another penny.”*
When winter came, so did Margaret’s call, demanding money for new tyres. Oliver threw her words back at her: *“Your car, your responsibility.”* She screamed about ingratitude, but he hung up. For the first time, he stood his ground, and I felt a flicker of hope. We might finally save for our own car instead of funding hers. But the relief is bittersweet—Oliver’s clash with his mother has left a rift, and it aches. I hate conflict, but how much longer could we swallow her selfishness?
My heart burns with the injustice. Oliver and I work ourselves ragged to pay the mortgage, building our life, while Margaret sees us as her personal ATM. Her promises were lies; her care, a pretence. I’m sick of feeling indebted for something that was never ours. Oliver’s taken the first step toward freedom, but I fear this fight is just the beginning. Margaret doesn’t back down, and her *“It’s my car”* still echoes, a warning. But I swear, we’ll break free—even if it means walking through fire. Our family deserves better, and I won’t let her steal our future.
