Do you know what it’s like to live in someone else’s flat for years, never knowing when you’ll be told to leave? My husband Thomas and I have rented for seven years. In that time, we’ve faced situations where landlords say, “We need the place back,” and suddenly, you’re packing again. Either their son’s university plans fell through, or the neighbours made life unbearable, or the rent went up without warning. All this time, we’ve put off having children—because how do you build a family under such uncertainty?
We’d have lived with parents—mine or his—if we could. But their places are cramped, and they’ve nothing to spare. Thomas and I graduated ages ago, married in our final year, dreaming we’d be young, engaged parents, in tune with our kids. Now? I’m not even sure I want that anymore. What if our child grows up feeling like a stranger, the way we do with this generation and their baffling views?
We both work, save, live frugally—no cafés, no holidays—all for a deposit. But no matter how hard we scrimp, it’s never enough. Then Thomas’s dad developed serious heart trouble. He’s not old, but his health failed, so now Thomas helps cover his bills. Of course, it drains our savings further, but what choice is there? Family comes first.
Then my mum, Margaret, said she’d inherited a sum from her aunt. She wanted to top up our savings so we could finally buy a flat—even a tiny one-bed. I was over the moon! We started browsing listings, even considered an estate agent before deciding to hunt ourselves.
At first, there were decent options, but haggling got us nowhere. Then it was grim: a wreck of a flat with no windows, or a cupboard-sized room touted as a “cosy nest.” Still, we persevered—sacrificing time, energy, sleep—all for a home of our own.
Then Thomas visited his parents. He came back quiet, brooding. That evening, he sat me down. His dad’s condition had worsened. Surgery might be needed. Slim chances, but still chances. And Thomas said he wanted to give him the money Mum promised us. “Life matters more than a flat,” he said. “We’ll earn more. Dad might not have time.”
He spoke with such raw pain, such conviction. I stayed silent. Later, I tried reasoning: it wasn’t our money yet. Mum hadn’t handed it over. She meant it for us, not his parents. Yes, his dad’s illness was awful—but how could I redirect her generosity to someone else’s crisis?
After that, Thomas looked at me like I was a stranger. Called me selfish. Said if it were my dad, I wouldn’t hesitate. We still talk, but it’s colder now—like polite flatmates. And I’m starting to wonder: what’s the point of a home if we’re no longer a family inside it?
When Mum heard Thomas’s plan, she refused to transfer the money early. She’d only hand it over on the day we signed for a flat—when it was clear where the funds were going.
I understand. It’s her money. She wanted to help us, not in-laws. But it still aches. Because I don’t want to lose Thomas. I just wanted a home. A nest. For us. Instead, I’ve got distrust, resentment, and this icy distance.
Everyone’s taken sides. His mates back him; mine back me. And all I want is peace, love, belonging. But apparently, that’s harder to afford than a mortgage.
So tell me—who’s in the right here?
