I’m completely shaken: my mother-in-law wants to move in with us and plans to give her flat to her daughter.
My name is Natalie, I’m thirty-six, married to Andrew, and we’ve been together nearly ten years. Our daughter, Emily, is almost six. We both work hard, manage as best we can, and live our lives without burdening anyone. But my patience is wearing dangerously thin.
From the start, we had no support. Not a single penny was given to help us. At first, Andrew and I squeezed into a tiny rented flat, scraping together rent, working seven days a week. Our goal was simple: save for a mortgage deposit and finally have a place of our own. Holidays? Unthinkable. We barely bought ourselves new jumpers. Everything was necessity. Everything a sacrifice.
Three relentless years later, we bought a two-bedroom flat in the city centre. Yes, on a mortgage. Yes, the weight of it was crushing. But it was ours. We were proud. We still had years of payments ahead, but at least we could breathe. We were happy—because we were free. No one dictated when to mop the floors, how to feed our child, or where to leave socks. Our home was our world.
Then came the evening that changed everything. I returned from work exhausted but content, knowing my husband and daughter were waiting. But sitting at the kitchen table was his mother—my mother-in-law, Margaret. She looked pleased, as if she’d brought good news. I was wrong.
*”Natalie, I’ve made a decision,”* she announced solemnly. *”I’m moving in with you. And I’m giving my flat to Sophie.”*
The room tilted.
Sophie—Andrew’s younger sister. Two kids, no stable partner, constant debts, one drama after another. Margaret had always coddled her. Everything for Sophie, always. Andrew had been an afterthought. And now, apparently, our lives were to be sacrificed too.
I steadied myself.
*”I’m sorry, Margaret, but we’ve only got two bedrooms. We’re cramped as it is.”*
*”Don’t fuss, love!”* she chirped. *”I’ll just be here in the evenings—pop in for meals, sleep, out during the day. I’ll help with Emily, tidy up—ease your load. I can’t leave my daughter homeless, can I? She’s got nothing!”*
And we, apparently, have everything? A decade of saving every penny, sleepless nights, to give our daughter security, to breathe in our own space. I don’t back down easily.
*”I’m sorry, but no. I won’t have anyone forcing their way into our home. This is *my* home.”*
Her tone shifted. No more *”love”*, no more *”help.”* Just accusations—that I was selfish, heartless. How could I deny an old woman the chance to save her daughter?
Andrew… said nothing. Nothing! As if this weren’t his mother about to upend our lives, but a neighbour borrowing sugar. I looked at him and didn’t recognise him. Trapped between two women he loved—one, his wife, the life they built; the other, his mother, who still saw him as a boy with a schoolbag.
Later, alone, I tried to talk. He just lowered his eyes. *”I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to fight with either of you.”*
And what about me? What about *my* home? *My* peace?
I won’t surrender what we’ve built. Not even to his mother. Because this is more than a flat. It’s our life. And if I have to fight for it—I will.
