**Diary Entry**
Being indebted to someone is a heavy burden, but ten times worse when the lender constantly shoves their “generosity” in your face, demanding endless gratitude. My name is Emily, and my husband, James, always tried to live within our means, avoiding debt. But his mother, Margaret, insisted on “helping” us, only to never let us forget how she “saved” us. The reminders only stopped when she “loaned” us money again. Even when James repaid her on time, she’d pat herself on the back: “See? You didn’t have to deal with those greedy banks and their outrageous interest rates—Mum came to the rescue!” We live in a small town near Manchester, and this game of “benefactor” made life unbearable.
When we finally considered buying a flat, I refused Margaret’s help outright. My grandmother had passed, leaving my mother a property she sold, splitting the money between me and my sister. It covered nearly half the cost, but Margaret immediately offered the rest—on one condition: the flat had to be in her name. I stared. “Why yours?” I asked. “Because I’m paying for it!” she snapped. I couldn’t hold back. “My mum gave money too. Should she co-own it with you?” Margaret turned red. “Are you mocking me?” “No,” I said. “We’ll buy it in our names. We don’t need your money. A mortgage isn’t worth becoming your eternal debtors.”
By then, I’d stopped staying silent and learned to fight fire with fire. It infuriated her, and she complained to relatives about my “cheek.” Still, she forced the money into James’s hands, ignoring our protests. He came home sheepish. “Sorry, I took it. Mum wouldn’t stop about your ‘stubbornness’ and the mortgage.” I sighed. “Fine. We’ll bow and thank her.” Little did I know the nightmare ahead.
After paying part of the flat, Margaret acted as if she owned it. She dictated the wallpaper, the furniture, even where the sofa should go. “Remove that walk-in shower. I’m bringing a bathtub. It’s better for me—and for your future children!” We fought back, but it was like boxing a shadow. When the flat was ready, she demanded a key “just in case.” I swallowed my rage—a mistake.
The first Sunday, I woke to clattering in the kitchen. Groggy, I shuffled in, only to find Margaret rearranging the cupboards. “What are you doing?” I choked out. Instead of answering, she shrieked, “Have you no decency? Put on a dressing gown!” My patience snapped. “Why? This is my home! I’ll walk around naked if I like! And what are you doing here?” “Your home?” she sneered. “Who paid for it?” “Not you!” I shot back. “Mum covered the kitchen. Your money went to the loo—go rule there!” James, woken by shouting, clutched his head and fled.
I called for reinforcements—my mum, Elizabeth. Whispering from the bathroom, I explained. Half an hour later, the doorbell rang. Margaret feigned cheer. “Elizabeth! What a surprise!” Mum wasted no time. “I fancied staying a fortnight. I did pay towards the flat—I’ve every right. What’s your excuse?” Margaret faltered. “I—just dropped by.” “To inspect what?” Mum pressed. “The shower you want gone? I like it, actually. Your bathtub’s probably from the Stone Age. Let’s split it—you keep your relic, I’ll take the modern one!”
Mum left no room for argument, and Margaret realised she’d met her match. Backpedalling, she suggested, “Let’s pop to the café, love. Coffee and a proper chat?” They left, and James and I, relieved, finally started our day. I’ll never know what Mum said, but since then, Margaret’s invasions stopped. No more unannounced visits, no unsolicited advice—just polite distance. She knows my mother won’t let her bully us.
My heart swells at this small victory, but unease lingers. Margaret’s resentment simmers; she’ll seize any chance to remind us of her “kindness.” But now I know: Mum’s my shield. With one conversation, she defended our home and our right to live as we choose. I’m grateful—yet deep down, I fear Margaret hasn’t given up. But neither have I. With Mum beside me, I won’t back down.
