My mother-in-law suggested swapping flats—but on one condition: I had to sign mine over to her.
I can’t speak for other women, but I know this much: I won’t gamble away what’s rightfully mine. Not when it comes to property. Not when my husband’s family is involved—the sort where every “good intention” hides something murky beneath.
Edward’s family is… complicated, to put it lightly. His younger brother has been in prison for years. Why? Take a wild guess. He’s always had a taste for dodgy schemes—dragging people into shady business, playing the hero, then leaving others to clean up the mess. In the end, he paid the price. And his mum, my mother-in-law, would just sigh and say, “Boys will be boys.”
When Edward and I married, we didn’t have many options—we moved into my place. A cosy little one-bed, inherited from my grandmother. Bright, high ceilings, more than enough space for us. It wasn’t like he resisted. Edward’s tidy, a proper homebody. Even in those early days, he never left the bathroom floor wet, always washed his own socks.
Three years passed. Then—our daughter arrived. A quiet, soft little thing named Emmeline. I’d braced for sleepless nights, tantrums, exhaustion. But Emmy was an angel. Gentle. Easy. Everything about her was light.
Edward turned out to be a decent father. Could he earn more? Sure, but who couldn’t? We made do. His mother, though—she blossomed as a grandmother. Gifts dropped off, phone calls ten times a day. So attentive, especially to me. At first, I thought she just wanted to be close to Emmy. Then I realised—she had a plan.
It was simple, really. She offered to swap—we’d take her two-bed flat, she’d move into our one-bed. “An old woman doesn’t need so much space,” she said. More room for the baby, help close at hand.
On paper? Perfect. But there was a catch. She insisted on a legal exchange—signing my flat over to her, while the two-bed stayed in Edward’s name. His alone.
At first, I didn’t get the trick. Then I sat down, worked it out… and it chilled me. If things went sour, I’d be left with nothing—my flat hers, the new one his. All perfectly legal.
I don’t know if it’s cunning or foresight, but she won’t budge. Pressures, pleads, twists every argument. Even claims that if I refuse, I must already be thinking of divorce—and if I’m thinking it, I must not love him.
Edward listens. He’s torn. Sees the risk, but—well, his mother wouldn’t steer him wrong, would she? We had it out. I told him, “You’re my husband, Emmy’s father. I trust you. But your mother? No. I won’t. I can’t. This feels wrong.”
He says I’m overcomplicating it. That I should be more flexible, it’s just paperwork. That nothing will change, no one’s leaving anyone. But I know how these things go. Today it’s “no one,” tomorrow it’s “strangers.” And there I’ll be—with a child, and nothing.
I tried to compromise—swap without the deeds, just live as a family, no legal tricks. She refused. Flat out said, “I don’t trust you. What if you split? Half my flat would go to you.”
There it is. She fears for her property—but demands mine.
Now it’s pressure every day. Edward grumbles, says he’s tired of the arguments. His mother calls, cajoles. All wrapped in kindness. And here I sit, in my one-bed, watching Emmy sleep, wondering—does wanting to keep what’s mine make me a bad mother?
I don’t know what to do. I won’t divorce him. But I won’t sign away my home, either. I’m exhausted. It’s not greed. It’s fear—of waking up with nothing if everything falls apart. I’ve seen it happen too many times.
What would you do in my place?
