So, I don’t even know how it’s come to this, but I’m absolutely gobsmacked by the situation I’m in. My husband, James, has seriously decided that his mum, Margaret, should move into our new flat in London. The very same flat we’ve dreamed about since we were 17, scrimped and saved for years to get, took out a mortgage on, and painstakingly decorated every corner of! And I absolutely do not want her living with us. Now I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place—either stand my ground and risk a huge row with James, or bite my tongue and watch our dream home turn into some sort of shared family space. Honestly, I’m at my wits’ end, but I can’t stay quiet anymore.
James and I started dating when we were both 17. Back then, we were just a pair of lovesick teenagers dreaming about the future—our own flat, a cosy little place where it’d just be us, and maybe one day our kids. We’d imagine picking out wallpaper, putting the sofa together, having coffee out on the balcony. Those dreams kept us going through uni, through work, through saving every spare penny for the deposit. And then, after all that time, we finally bought our place in London—small, but ours. I still remember the first time we stepped inside: empty rooms, the smell of fresh paint, that feeling like it was the start of a whole new chapter. We made it ours with so much love—I picked out the curtains, James assembled the furniture, we even bickered over what colour the rug should be. It was our nest, our little world.
Then, out of nowhere last month, James drops this bombshell: “Liz, I think we should have Mum move in with us.” At first, I thought he was joking. Margaret lives in a little town about two hours away. She’s got her own house, a garden, neighbours she has tea with. Why on earth would she need to move in with us? But James was dead serious. “She’s getting older,” he says. “It’s hard for her on her own. We’ve got the space, so she should be with us.” I was floored. Our flat’s a two-bed—one’s ours, and the other’s just sitting there, but we’d planned to use it as either a nursery or a study. And now his mum’s supposed to move in there?
I tried to explain why it’s a bad idea. First off, Margaret’s… well, she’s got strong opinions. She likes things her way and doesn’t hold back about how I should cook, clean, even dress. When she visits, I feel like a guest in my own home within a day. She rearranges my pots, criticises my roast, and lectures me on how to properly iron James’ shirts. Now imagine that every single day! I’d lose my mind. Second, James and I finally have our own space where we can just be us. We’re young, we want freedom—spontaneous evenings, peace and quiet. With Margaret around, that’d vanish. She even blasts the telly at full volume.
But James isn’t hearing any of it. “Liz, she’s my mum,” he says. “We can’t just leave her to fend for herself.” Don’t get me wrong, I believe in looking after parents. But why does it have to come at the cost of our home? I suggested other options—visit more often, help fix up her place, hire a carer. But James dug his heels in: “She’s moving in, end of.” I even asked, “Did you even think to ask if I wanted this?” He just shrugged: “I thought you’d understand.” Understand? Who’s understanding me?
I rang my best mate to vent, and she said, “Liz, if you cave now, you’ll regret it forever. It’s your home—you’ve got a say.” And she’s right. It’s not that I dislike Margaret, but I don’t want to live with her. I know how it’ll go—she’ll meddle in everything, from how we raise our future kids to how I stack the fridge. And James, instead of backing me, will just say, “Just bear with it, she’s my mum.” I can already see our dream home becoming a battleground.
Last night, I finally sat James down and said, “I love you, but I’m not okay with your mum living here. This is our home—we built it for us. Let’s find another way to help her.” He frowned and said, “So you’ve got a problem with my mum?” I nearly screamed. A problem? No, I just want to keep our marriage and our peace intact! We argued for ages, and in the end, he said, “Think about it, Liz. If this is your hill to die on, things might have to change.” Change what? Our marriage? Our future? I went to bed with this awful weight in my chest, but I’m not backing down.
Now I’m trying to figure out a compromise. Maybe Margaret could stay for a couple of weeks, but not permanently? Or we could rent her a place nearby? I’ll help however I can, but I won’t sacrifice our home. What terrifies me is James choosing her over us, and then… well, what happens next? It’s scary, but I can’t stay silent. We worked for years to get here, to this life. And I won’t let it become someone else’s space.
My own mum, when I told her, said, “Liz, hold your ground. Your home’s your safe place—you’ve got to protect it.” And she’s right. I don’t want to fight with James, but I won’t roll over either. Margaret might be lovely, but she’ll have to respect our boundaries. And James needs to decide what matters more—her comfort or our family. I’m sure we’ll figure it out, but right now, I’m bracing myself. Because this flat isn’t just walls—it’s everything we dreamed of. And I’m not giving that up.
