You ever know what it’s like to live in someone else’s flat for years on end, never knowing when you’ll be told to pack up and leave? Me and my husband, James, have been renting for seven years. In that time, we’ve had landlords change their minds more times than I can count—sometimes because their son’s uni plans fell through, or the neighbours turned unbearable, or they’d hike the rent without warning. All the while, we haven’t dared start a family because raising a child in that uncertainty? Impossible.
We’d have moved in with either set of parents if we could, but their places are too small, and they’ve got nothing to spare. James and I both graduated years ago, married right out of uni, back when we dreamed of being young, hands-on parents in sync with our kids. Now? I’m not even sure I want that anymore. What if our kid grows up and feels like a stranger to us, the way today’s youth with their baffling ideas already do?
We both work, save every penny, live frugally—no meals out, no holidays—all for a deposit. But no matter how hard we scrape, it’s never enough. Then, as if that weren’t enough, James’s dad’s heart started failing. He’s not even old, but his health’s gone downhill, and James has been dipping into our savings to help. It’s gutting our budget, but family’s family.
Then my mum, Margaret, dropped a bombshell: she’d inherited a chunk of money from her aunt and wanted to top up our savings so we could finally buy a one-bed flat. I was over the moon! We started hunting right away—viewed a few places that looked promising until haggling fell through, then grim shoeboxes landlords called “cosy nests.” Still, we kept at it, losing sleep, pouring everything into the dream of a home.
Then James visited his parents. Came back quiet, distant. That night, he sat me down. His dad’s condition was worse—surgery might be needed, odds slim but not zero. And James said flat-out: he wanted to give Mum’s money to his father instead. “Life’s more important than a flat,” he said. “We’ll earn it back. Dad might not have time.”
He was raw, pleading. I stayed silent, then argued: it wasn’t our money yet. Mum meant it for us, not his family. Yes, his dad’s illness was awful—but how could I just hand over her savings for someone else’s crisis?
The way James looked at me then—like I was a stranger. Called me selfish. Said if it were my dad, I wouldn’t hesitate. Now we talk in clipped tones, like flatmates, not lovers. And I’m not even sure I want that flat anymore if we’ll just live in it side by side, hearts miles apart.
When Mum found out James’s plan, she refused to transfer the money early. Said she’d only hand it over on signing day, once the flat was ours. I get it. It’s her money, meant for us, not his family. But it still aches. Because I don’t want to lose my husband. I just wanted a home. Our nest. Instead, I’ve got suspicion, resentment, and this endless chill between us.
Everyone’s picked sides—his mates back him, mine back me. And me? I just want peace. To love and be loved. Turns out, that’s harder than scraping together a mortgage.
So tell me—who’s in the right here?
