I’ve always been one of those women who live for their children. From sleepless nights when my son was little to the constant worries about his future as a teenager, I gave everything I had. I went grey early, sacrificed so much, but I did it all with love—after all, Oliver is my only child. Now that he’s turned 31, I thought it was finally time to think a little about myself.
Oliver got married eight years ago. We and his in-laws covered the wedding costs, and as a gift, I handed them an envelope with cash—let them decide how to spend it. The young couple rented a nice two-bedroom flat in a good part of London right after the wedding. I was proud they were managing on their own—not every couple can afford to live independently.
But a few years later, money got tight. That’s when Oliver came to me for help. I had a steady income—I was renting out a flat left to me by my ex-husband’s father. The tenant was perfect: a quiet man, no drama, always paid on time. But when I found out my daughter-in-law was pregnant, I knew I had to step in.
I asked the tenant to leave and handed the flat over to Oliver and his wife. I told myself—fine, I’ll go without my favorite prawns and salmon for a while. It’s worth it to help the family. Besides, my daughter-in-law suddenly became sweet—inviting me over, asking for my opinion.
Three years passed. Three years of them living in that flat without paying a single pound. And I couldn’t bring myself to ask them to leave. You know how it is—when things are going well, it’s like a trap. Hard to be the “bad guy” who reminds them of their debt. But I started noticing how worn out I felt: sluggish, heavy, putting on weight. Eating whatever’s cheap because I’m cutting corners. All for them.
Then one day, I gathered the courage. Calmly, without blame, I asked Oliver, “Love, don’t you think it’s time to start looking for your own place? It’s a long commute to work, and there are plenty of options.” He just laughed it off. My daughter-in-law added, “The little one’s still small, let’s stay a bit longer.”
I tried explaining that being a mother doesn’t mean sacrificing yourself forever. That they could find a flat closer to nursery. But the conversation turned sour. They took offence. And I ended up feeling guilty—guilty for just wanting to live normally again.
A week later, the in-laws invited me to some distant cousin’s birthday—someone I’d apparently met at the wedding. I didn’t want to go, but they insisted: no gifts needed, just come along. So I went.
That’s when the surprise hit. All eyes were on me. The main topic of the evening was my “heartlessness”—how could I kick out a young family? What mattered more: money or my son and grandson’s wellbeing? Ten people, all judging. No one cared how I’d been struggling all this time.
In the end, they “settled” it: Oliver and his family would stay but pay rent—half the market rate, supposedly. Really, it’s even less. And I’d officially be the landlord, with the right to demand repairs, prompt payments, and so on. Sounds fair, but it was forced on me. I was just too tired to argue.
I can already tell—this “agreement” won’t end well. There’ll be arguments, complaints. But I’ve no choice. Now I’ve set my terms: if they break something, they fix it. I’d like to believe we can keep things civil. But if not—well, that’s the price of their choice. I wanted things to be different… but no one listened.
