Oh my goodness, I’m absolutely gobsmacked—my mother-in-law wants to move in with us and give her flat to her daughter!
I’m Charlotte, 36, married to William for nearly ten years now. We’ve got our little girl, Emily, who’s almost six. Both of us work hard, doing our best to build a life without burdening anyone. But honestly, I’m this close to losing it.
From the very start, we’ve had no help—not a single penny from anyone. Back then, William and I were crammed into this tiny rented flat in Manchester, scraping together rent, barely taking a day off. Our only goal? Save up for a mortgage deposit and finally have a place of our own. Holidays? Forget it. We didn’t even splurge on new jumpers—everything was strict budgeting, only the bare essentials.
Three years of that grind, and we finally bought a two-bed in the city centre. Yeah, it’s on a mortgage. Yeah, it’s a weight. But it’s *ours*. We were chuffed. Still have a few years left to pay, but we could finally breathe. We were happy—just because it was *our* space. No one telling us when to mop floors, what to feed Emily, or where to chuck the socks. Our home, our rules.
Then came the evening that changed everything. I got back from work—exhausted but happy, knowing William and Emily were waiting for me. But there, sat at the kitchen table, was his mum—Margaret. She looked *pleased*, like she had good news. Oh, how wrong I was.
“Charlotte, love,” she announced, dead serious. “I’ve made up my mind. I’m moving in with you. And I’m giving my flat to Sophie.”
The room spun.
Sophie—William’s younger sister. Two kids, never married, always in debt, drama non-stop. Margaret’s spoilt her rotten her whole life. Everything for Sophie, *always*. William? Always second best. And now, apparently, *our* life had to be sacrificed for her too.
I tried to keep calm.
“Sorry, Margaret, but we’ve only got two bedrooms. The three of us barely fit as it is. Where exactly would you stay?”
“Oh, don’t fuss, dear!” she trilled. “I’ll just pop in evenings, have a bite, and kip down. Out all day otherwise. Help with Emily, tidy up—take some load off you! Can’t just chuck my own daughter out on the street, can I? She’s got *nothing*!”
And we’ve got *everything*, have we? We scraped every penny for a *decade*, lost sleep, just so Emily could grow up safe and warm, so we could have our own little haven. I’m not one to roll over, so I said it straight:
“Sorry, but no. I won’t have anyone forcing their way into our home. *I* run this house. We built this life ourselves.”
The ‘dears’ and ‘help’ vanished. Suddenly, I was selfish, only thinking of myself. How *dare* I, when she—a poor old woman—couldn’t abandon her daughter in need, and here I was, fussing over *comfort*.
William? Sat there silent. *Silent!* Like this wasn’t his mum about to upend our lives, but some neighbour borrowing sugar. I looked at him and didn’t recognise him. Stuck between two women he loves. One’s his *wife*—the life they’re building. The other’s his mum, who still sees him as her little boy.
Later, when we were alone, I tried talking to him. He just stared at the floor. “I don’t know what to do. Don’t want to fight with you *or* Mum.”
Well, *easy for him*. What about me? When it’s made clear I’m the *backup plan*?
But here’s the thing—this *can’t* go on. Sooner or later, William has to pick a side. I’m tired of living like my voice doesn’t matter. I’ve got a right to a home where I’m at peace. Where I don’t have to second-guess every move. Where Emily won’t hear her gran whispering about who *really* matters in this family.
No idea how this ends. But one thing’s certain—I’m *not* giving up my home. I won’t let what we built over years be torn apart. Not even if it means fighting his own mother for it.
