**A Diary of My Own Space**
My husband and I finally decided to buy our own home—something we’ve dreamt of for years. We’ve secured a mortgage and even borrowed some money from his mother, Margaret. She isn’t malicious, but her constant interference drives me up the wall. Since her husband passed, she’s made it her mission to smother everyone with attention, and it’s suffocating. She has a spacious flat in central Manchester, but I’ve made my choice: I’d rather have a cramped place of my own than live under her shadow.
We viewed a three-bedroom flat in a new development. The smallest room would’ve been perfect for the walk-in wardrobe I’ve always wanted. But Margaret was having none of it. “What a waste!” she scoffed. “Where will guests sleep? What if family visits?” Her pointed glare said it all—she was thinking of herself. Lately? She lingers at ours until late, as if dreading her empty flat. That tiny room wouldn’t just be for guests—it’d be her foothold, her excuse to overstay… or worse, move in permanently.
I’m not blind. I see where this is heading. Margaret is lonely, and her so-called care is just control in disguise. She rings three times a day “just to check in,” bombards us with unsolicited advice, and even tries to dictate how we furnish the place. I won’t share my home with her! My husband, James, and I are buying this flat to build *our* life—not to cater to her whims, no matter how “well-meaning” she seems.
I laid down the law: no three-bedders. “I want your mother visiting for Christmas, not moving in,” I told James. He argued she just wants to be close, that she’s getting older, that it’s hard living alone. But I stood firm. I refuse to sacrifice my peace for her stifling affection. I’ll give up my dream wardrobe if it means keeping our home ours.
If guests come? They can sleep on an airbed. If Margaret hints at staying over, I’ll invent a hundred reasons to send her home. This is *our* house, *our* life—and I won’t let anyone, not even her, take that from us.
