The Mother-in-Law in Our Flat
Honestly, I’m gobsmacked. My husband, Oliver, has somehow convinced himself that his mum, Margaret, should move into our brand-new London flat. The very flat we’ve dreamt of since we were 17, scrimped and saved for, took out a mortgage on, and lovingly decorated every corner of! And I absolutely don’t want her living with us. Now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place: stand my ground and risk a row with Olly, or swallow my pride and turn our dream home into some sort of shared accommodation. I’m at my wits’ end, and I can’t keep quiet any longer.
Oliver and I started dating when we were teenagers, all doe-eyed and full of grand plans for the future—our own flat, cosy nights in, maybe kids someday. We’d daydream about picking out wallpaper, assembling IKEA furniture (badly), and drinking tea on the balcony. Those dreams kept us going through uni, part-time jobs, and living off beans on toast to save up for the deposit. And then, after years of pinching pennies, we finally bought our little two-bed in London. I’ll never forget the first time we stepped inside—empty rooms, the smell of fresh paint, and that giddy feeling of starting a new chapter. We made it ours, bickering over rug colours and curtain choices like it was a national sport. This was our nest, our sanctuary.
Then, out of the blue last month, Olly drops the bombshell: “Alice, I think we should have Mum move in.” I laughed, thinking it was a joke. Margaret lives in a lovely cottage in the Cotswolds, with her garden and her neighbours for gossip over cuppas. Why on earth would she want to squeeze into our shoebox? But Olly was dead serious. “She’s getting older,” he said. “It’s tough on her own. We’ve got the space.” Space? Our second bedroom is practically a glorified cupboard, earmarked for a future nursery or home office, not a live-in mother-in-law!
I tried reasoning with him. First off, Margaret is… how to put this nicely? A woman who knows her own mind. She’s not shy about telling me how to roast a chicken, fold the towels, or even wear my hair. When she visits, I feel like a guest in my own home within 24 hours—rearranging my kitchen, tutting at my Sunday roast, lecturing me on how to starch Olly’s shirts. Now imagine that every. Single. Day. I’d lose the plot. Secondly, we’ve only just carved out this little slice of independence—late-night takeaways, lazy mornings, peace and quiet. With Margaret around? Forget it. She blasts her telly shows loud enough to rattle the windows.
But Olly’s dug his heels in. “Alice, she’s my mum,” he says, like that explains everything. “We can’t just leave her.” Don’t get me wrong—I’m all for looking after parents. But why does it have to mean sacrificing our space? I suggested alternatives: visiting more, hiring help, even fixing up her place. Nope. “She needs to be with family,” Olly insists. So I asked, “Did you even think to ask if I wanted this?” He just shrugged. “Thought you’d understand.” Understand? When does anyone understand *me*?
I rang my best mate, Claire, for a vent. She listened and said, “Alice, if you cave now, you’ll regret it forever. It’s your home—you get a say.” And she’s right. It’s not that I dislike Margaret, but I refuse to share a roof with her. I’ve seen how this plays out: she’ll micromanage everything from future parenting to how I stack the fridge. And Olly? He’ll just say, “Give her a chance, she’s family,” while I slowly lose my marbles. Our dream home risks becoming a battleground.
Last night, I finally put my foot down. Sat Olly down and said, “Love you, but I’m not living with your mum. This is *our* home. Let’s find another way.” He frowned. “So you’re against her?” I nearly screamed. Against her? No—I’m *for* us! We argued for an hour before he said, “Think about it, Alice. This could change things.” Change *what*? Our marriage? Our future? I went to bed with a lump in my throat, but I’m not backing down.
Now I’m scrambling for compromises. Maybe Margaret visits for a fortnight, not forever? Or we help her rent a place nearby? I’ll support her—just not at the cost of my sanity. But what terrifies me is Olly choosing her over us. My mum, when I told her, said, “Hold your ground, love. Your home’s your safe place—fight for it.” And she’s spot on. I don’t want a row, but I won’t roll over either. Margaret might mean well, but boundaries matter. And Olly needs to decide: his mum’s comfort or our happiness.
I’m sure we’ll figure it out. But for now? I’m gearing up for battle. Because this flat isn’t just bricks and mortar—it’s our dream. And I’m not handing it over without a fight.
