**Diary Entry**
Being indebted to someone is a dreadful weight, but ten times worse when the creditor shoves their “generosity” in your face, demanding eternal gratitude. I, Emily, and my husband, James, always tried to live within our means, avoiding debts at all costs. But his mother, Margaret, would force her help upon us just to endlessly remind us how she “saved” us. These reminders only stopped if she “loaned” us money yet again. Even when James borrowed from her and repaid on time, she’d find a way to praise herself: “See, you didn’t have to deal with banks and their extortionate interest rates—mum came to the rescue!” We live in a small town near Manchester, and this game of “benefactor” poisoned our lives.
When the time came to buy a flat, I outright refused Margaret’s help. An opportunity arose after my grandmother passed away. She left Mum a flat, which she sold, dividing the money between my sister and me. It covered nearly half of what we needed. But Margaret immediately declared she’d provide the rest—on the condition the flat be registered in her name. I was stunned. “Why in your name?” I asked. “Because I’m the one paying!” she snipped. I couldn’t help myself: “My mum gave money too. Shall you both be co-owners?” Margaret turned crimson. “Are you mocking me?” “No,” I replied. “We’ll buy the flat and register it in our names. We don’t need your money. A mortgage isn’t so terrifying that we’d become your eternal debtors.”
By then, I’d stopped holding my tongue as I used to and had learned to answer her in kind. It infuriated her, and she complained to relatives that her daughter-in-law had “grown too bold.” Still, she shoved the money at James despite our protests. He came home flustered. “Sorry, I took Mum’s money. She wouldn’t stop about your ‘stubbornness’ and the mortgage.” I just sighed. “Fine, we’ll bow and thank her.” But I had no idea what nightmare awaited us.
After paying for part of the flat, Margaret decided she owned it. She dictated the wallpaper, the furniture, even where the sofa should go. “Get rid of the shower cubicle. I’ll bring a bathtub. It’s better for me, and when you have children, where will you bathe them?” she ordered. We fended off her “advice,” but it was like fighting windmills. Once the flat was ready, she demanded keys “just in case.” Rage simmered inside me, but I agreed to avoid a row. That was my mistake.
The first Sunday, I woke to odd noises in the kitchen. Half-asleep, in just a T-shirt, I shuffled in and froze—Margaret was rearranging the cupboards. “What are you doing?” I managed. Instead of answering, she shrieked, “Have you no shame? Can’t you even put on a dressing gown?” My patience snapped. “Why? This is *my* home. I can walk around naked if I want! And what are you doing in my kitchen?” “*Your* kitchen?” she sneered. “Who paid for it?” I shot back, “Not *you*! Mum paid for the kitchen. *Your* money went to the bathroom and loo—go reign there!” James, woken by the shouting, grabbed his head and fled to the bedroom, leaving us to it.
Realising I couldn’t handle this alone, I called for backup—my mum, Charlotte. Locked in the bathroom, I whispered the situation to her. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Margaret, all innocence, answered. “Oh, Charlotte, with bags? What a surprise!” Mum didn’t miss a beat. “Got lonely. Thought I’d stay with the kids a fortnight. I *did* pay towards the flat—I’ve the right. And you’re here because…?” Margaret faltered. “I just dropped by to look around.” “At what?” Mum pressed. “The shower you want to tear out? I rather like it. Your bathtub’s probably ancient. Let’s divide it—you keep your old tub, I’ll take the fancy cubicle with speakers!”
Mum didn’t let Margaret get a word in, and she soon realised she’d met her match. She retreated. “Come now, dear, why quarrel? Let’s pop to the café round the corner for a civil chat over coffee.” They left, and James and I, crossing ourselves, finally started our day. I don’t know what Mum said to Margaret, but since then, the surprise visits stopped. No more unsolicited “advice,” just polite conversation—as if she’d finally grasped my mum wouldn’t let her push me around.
My heart sings at this small victory, but unease lingers. Margaret’s resentment simmers; I know she’s biding her time to remind us of her “generosity.” But now I see: my mum is my fortress. One conversation put Margaret in her place, defending our home and our right to live as we choose. I’m grateful, yet deep down, I fear Margaret hasn’t given up. Still, I’m ready—with Mum behind me, I won’t back down.
