“I’ll Be Staying With You for a While,” Announced My Mother-in-Law — But Natasha’s Response Left Her Speechless

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Ill have to stay with you for a while, declared my mother-in-law. Natashas response left her speechless.

Listen, Natasha, I said, running my hand nervously through my hair, Mums just found herself in a tough spot.

What sort of tough spot? Natasha sank into the armchair, eyes locked on me. A week ago she had her own flat, her job, her plans. Now suddenly shes in desperate need of our help?

I sighed heavily. I knew Id have to tell the whole truth, but how do you explain to your wife that your mothers landed herself in trouble once again?

It had all begun three days earlier, with a fateful phone call.

Mary called me on Saturday morning, voice uncertain, almost whispering.

William, darling, Ive got myself into a bit of a bind.

Whats happened, Mum?

Do you remember Mr. Stevenson? My neighbour?

I tensed. Mr. Stevenson was that retired chancer whod made a nuisance of himself with Mum about six months ago. Id warned her he was questionable, but she never listened.

Whats wrong?

Her voice shook. Hes a swindler, Will. I lent him moneyquite a lot, actually. He gave me an IOU and all, but now hes vanished. Turns out the notes a sham.

I felt cold inside.

How much money, Mum?

Almost all my savings, Mum whispered. And I mortgaged the flat. Thought itd be easy enough, but now The bank want their money back early, and Ive got nothing.

Mum, how could you?

He said he was starting a business! She burst out crying. Promised hed pay me back with interest! I thoughtwell, I thought wed be getting married soon, I wanted to help.

Mum, calm down. What are we going to do?

William, she replied, regaining composure, Ive got a plan. Ill sell the flat quickly, settle up with the bank, then move in with you and Natasha. Youve got enough space, havent you? Three bedrooms.

My head began to pound.

But Mum, its Natashas flat.

William! she snapped. Have you forgotten all Ive done for you? And now youre saying your she paused, your wife would just leave your own mother out in the cold?

Nobodys throwing you out, Mum.

Good! Her tone turned brisk. So its settled. Ive spoken to an estate agent. Everything will be sorted by Wednesday, my things will arrive Thursday. Just clear a small room for meI wont take up much space.

Mum, I need to discuss this with Natasha.

Whats there to discuss? her voice rang with steel. Arent you the man of the house? Its your family! Your responsibility to care for your mother!

Technically, the flat belongs to Natasha, I tried.

Oh, is that it? Mary sounded offended. So youre living off her? A kept man, is it? Shameful, William!

Mum, its not that

Right then, she cut me off coldly. Ill get everything sorted tomorrow morning. Youll help with the move!

I heard a click as she hung up.

I stared at my phone, groaned. How on earth was I supposed to explain this to Natasha?

Natasha came home from yoga around seven, cheerful and relaxed. Dinner was on the stovea dead giveaway I wanted to talk about something serious.

Whats up? she asked, hanging her coat.

Mum called.

Natashas smile faded slightly. Her relationship with my mother was, in all honesty, frosty.

What did she want?

Shes got herself into a mess.

What kind of mess?

I told the whole story about Mr. Stevenson and the money. Natasha listened silently, shaking her head now and then.

And now? she asked, when I finished.

She wants to move in.

I see. Natasha sat down. And what do you think?

I think she hasnt got many options.

Really? Natasha raised an eyebrow. What about renting a place? Or staying with relatives? Or social servicesthose exist here too, you know.

Natasha, shes my mother.

So she gets to decide how we live? Natasha leaned back in her chair. Will, lets be honest: your mother cant stand me. Four years of marriage, and shes never missed a chance to make me feel useless.

I said nothing. She wasnt wrongit was pointless to argue.

Remember what she said at Vickys birthday? Natasha continued. A good wife never buys ready mealsshe makes them from scratch. That was after Id got home from work at nine!

She didnt mean it that way.

Didnt she? Natasha let out a bitter laugh. What about all her digs about proper wives having babies in the first two years? Or moving my things to where they belong?

I rubbed my forehead. All those little things added up over time.

Shes just set in her ways, likes being in control.

Exactly! Natasha stood up. And do you really want her controlling our home, our lives?

But where else will she go?

Shes an adult. She needs to sort out the mess she made herself, Natasha said firmly. Shell have money from the flatcan rent or buy something smaller.

Most of the money will go to pay off the mortgage.

Then she can ask social services. Or find a jobplenty of people work into their seventies.

Natasha, dont be so harsh

No, she said resolutely, I wont live under the same roof as someone who clearly despises me. And it’s not about the flat being mine. Im simply not turning my home into a battleground.

What if she stays, just temporarily? I tried. Until she finds something else?

Temporarily? Natasha looked at me sadly. Do you really think shell look for something else? Shes created the perfect situationno alternatives.

You think its deliberate?

What do you think? Natasha walked to the window. A seventy-year-old woman who spent her life as an accountant doesnt realise she shouldnt hand her savings over to a stranger? She saw her chance to get what she wantedto move in with us.

I stayed silent. Deep down, I knew she could be right.

Will, Natasha said gently, turning to me, I love you. But I wont let anyoneeven your mumdestroy our marriage.

I walked over and held her.

What should I do?

What any grown man should do, she replied. Tell your mother you have your own family now. That you care for her, but youre building your own life.

She wont understand.

Thats her problem. Not yours.

The next day I rang Mum. It was a tough call.

What do you mean youre not ready? Mary fumed. Ive already made up my mind! The flats sold!

We can help with money, Mum. Well help you find a place to rent and pay for a few months.

Money? she scoffed. I have my own son, my own family! I dont need strangers helping me!

Its not strangers. Its me, Mum.

Your decision? her voice trembled. Will, I sacrificed everything for you! This is my reward?

Mum, Im grateful. But Im a grown manI have my own family now.

What family! she exploded. Family is me!

Mum, thats enough.

Oh, enough is it? She went icy. Fine. Youve made your choice. Live your life however you like. Just remember: when you need me, I wont answer your call!

She hung up.

I told Natasha everything.

She said Ive betrayed her, I sighed.

Thats emotional blackmail, Natasha said calmly. Shell get used to it. You know, after Dad passed, my mum tried moving in with me, too. She was upset when I refused, but now shes thankfulshe found her own life and interests.

But what if she gets ill?

Then well help. It doesnt mean she has to live with us.

The next week passed tensely. Mary stayed silent. Then my sister, Helen, rang.

Will, she said worriedly, Mums in hospital. Heart attack.

What? What happened?

Doctors say stress. Selling the flat, then falling out with you.

I felt that old pang of guilt.

How is she?

Resting, a bit weepy. Keeps asking about you. Says, Hell be sorry when hes burying his mother.

Helenreally?

Yes, I know its manipulation! Helen replied wearily. Im worried anyway.

That evening I told Natasha the news.

Lets go see her, she surprised me by saying.

Are you serious?

More than ever. She needs to see we care.

In the hospital Mum seemed small and frail. When we entered, she turned her back pointedly towards the wall.

Mum, I said quietly. Howre you feeling?

Do you care? was the reply, without turning round.

Mary, Natasha interjected, can we talk?

Mum turned slowly.

Whats there to talk about?

That youre in a difficult spot. That were here to helpnot quite in the way you want, but as we can.

I dont want your pity.

Its not pity, Natasha replied patiently. Its care. Well help you find a good place, pay rent, come see you often. But living togetherit’s just not possible.

Why? Mums voice, for once, lacked aggression.

Because we need our own space. You do too. Youre used to running your own home. We have our routines and our life.

And what if I get ill?

Well be thereanytime, day or night. But it doesnt mean living together.

Mary was silent for a long while. Then she asked quietly:

Will you really help me find somewhere nice?

Of course, said Natasha.

And youll visit?

Yesand have you over for holidays. Youre going to be grandmother to our children.

Marys eyes filled with tears.

Children?

Were planning, Natasha smiled.

I thought Mum whispered. I thought you never wanted me around.

Of course we do.

A month later, we helped Mary rent a cosy two-bed flat near the park. Helped her settle in, introduced her to the neighbours. She joined a craft club, made a frienda fellow active retiree.

Now she visits us every week. And when, a year later, Natasha gave birth to our daughter, Mary became the most wonderful grandma imaginable.

You know, she said to Natasha one day, Im glad you didnt let me move in then. Id have lost touch with everything. Now, Ive found so many new interests!

Natasha smiled: We did the right thing.

Cradling my baby girl, I reflected on how crucial it is to say no, even to those closest to you. Sometimes its that very no that saves love.

What would you do if your relatives tried to solve their problems at your expense? Let me know below.

My Husband Was Supporting His Ex with Our Money – So I Gave Him an Ultimatum From the very beginning, I knew about his ex-wife. He never hid the fact that he’d been married before, had a daughter, and paid child support every month. I even thought it was right — admirable, actually. I respected him for being responsible. But, slowly, I realised something more alarming: What I saw as responsibility was actually a painful sense of guilt. Chronic, exhausting, relentless. Guilt that hung over him like an invisible cloud… and someone knew exactly how to take advantage. The monthly payments went out regularly. The sums were decent. But alongside those, there was a whole world of “extras”. A new laptop for school because the old one was slow and all the kids had nicer ones. My husband sighed… and bought it. An expensive spot on a language camp, because otherwise his daughter might fall behind her classmates. Again, he agreed — even though the cost was as much as our entire summer holiday. New Year’s presents, birthday gifts, a treat for no reason, the poshest, most expensive, most dazzling. Because “Dads should always be generous.” His ex-wife knew exactly how to play him. She would call, using that faintly suffering tone: “She’ll be so upset… you understand? I can’t manage on my own.” And he understood. He understood so intensely he stopped seeing reality around him. The reality he shared with me — the one with our plans, dreams, and future together. But the money for that future was dripping away, bit by bit, into a past that refused to leave. I tried to reason with him. “Don’t you think this is too much? She has everything. Meanwhile, we’ve gone two months without a washing machine. Wake up…” He looked at me, guilty. “She’s just a child… I can’t say no. They say these years are tough. I have to support her.” “But what about my self-worth? Our life?” I asked, sharper now. He looked confused. “What, are you jealous? Of a child?” It wasn’t jealousy. It was fairness. We were living in a constant state of emergency — always funding someone else’s “urgent need,” which never seemed to end. Our washing machine had been dying for ages. It rattled, jumped, stopped mid-cycle. I dreamed of a normal, quiet one. I’d put money aside from my salary, found one on sale, set a day to buy it. I could already imagine loading the laundry and not worrying about it breaking down. That morning, he was strangely silent, pacing, as if looking for something on the floor. Just as I was about to grab my purse, he said, “I… took the money… for the washing machine.” My fingers went cold. “You did? Where did you take it?” “For my daughter. It was urgent… dental work. My ex called late, panicked, said the child was in agony and needed a private specialist, which was really expensive… I couldn’t say no…” I leaned against the door frame. “And… is she cured now?” “Yes, yes!” he brightened, as if the worst was over. “It all went great. They said it went perfectly.” I looked at him for several seconds and quietly said, “Call her now.” “What? Why?” “Call her. Ask how your daughter is… and which tooth hurt most.” He frowned, but dialled. The conversation was brief. As he listened, I watched his face change – from confidence to discomfort. He hung up. “Well… she’s fine now. The pain’s gone.” “Which tooth?” I repeated. “It doesn’t matter…” “Which tooth?” My voice sounded harsh, almost unfamiliar. He sighed. “They said… actually, it wasn’t pain. It was planned. Whitening treatment. Apparently, it’s allowed at that age. She’d been waiting for it all year…” At that moment, I just turned and sat down on the kitchen chair. The money for our normal life… had gone toward teeth whitening, just because someone decided it was ‘necessary’. And the worst bit? He hadn’t even wondered. Hadn’t double-checked. Just handed it over. Because guilt makes you a lousy judge… but a great target for emotional blackmail. Afterwards, a frozen silence settled over our home. I barely spoke to him. He tried to “make it up” with little gestures, but it was like sticking a plaster on a gaping wound. I finally understood – I wasn’t fighting his ex-wife. I was fighting the ghost he carried inside. The ghost of a failed marriage. The constant belief that he “hadn’t done enough.” That he “had to make up for it.” That ghost was always hungry. It demanded fresh sacrifices: money, time, nerves, dignity. The breaking point came at his daughter’s birthday. Despite my feelings, I bought a nice, thoughtful, but modest book – one she’d mentioned wanting. The impressive gifts were from “mum and dad”: a new phone, the sort only the richest kids have. His ex was dressed magazine-style. She greeted guests like a hostess. Smiled sweetly… but was sharp as a blade. When gift time arrived, and his daughter picked up my book, the ex announced loudly, to the whole room, “There you go, darling – those who really love you give what you dream of,” pointing to the shiny present. “And this…” nodding scornfully at my book, “is just from some ‘auntie’. Just… for show.” The room froze. All eyes turned to me. Then to my husband. And he… said nothing. Didn’t defend me. Didn’t correct her. He did absolutely nothing. He stared at the floor. At his plate. Deep down somewhere. Shrunk, hunched, as if hoping to disappear. His silence was louder than a slap. It was agreement. I endured the party with a stony face. Smiled, nodded… but inside, something was finished. Not a crisis. Not a pause. The end. When we got home, I didn’t make a scene. Scenes are for people still fighting. I went to the bedroom, took the old dusty suitcase from the top of the wardrobe – the one my husband brought when he moved in. And started packing his clothes. Slowly. Methodically. No trembling. Shirts. Trousers. Socks. All arranged. He heard, entered, and froze when he saw the suitcase. “What are you doing?” “I’m helping you pack,” I said calmly. “What? Where am I supposed to go? Is this about today? She’s always like that…” “It’s not about her,” I interrupted. “It’s about you.” I packed the last item. “You live in the past. Every penny, every thought, every silence – is stuck back there. But I live in the present. In a present where we can’t afford a washing machine because you spend money on someone’s teeth-whitening whims. In a present where I’m humiliated in public and my husband stares at the floor.” I zipped the suitcase, stood it up. Looked him in the eye. “Go on. Go to her. Help with everything: teeth, tutoring, her endless dramas and manipulations. Atone for your guilt if you must. But do it there, not here. Make space.” “What space?” “The space for a husband in my life. Right now, that’s occupied – by the ghost of another woman. And I’m done sharing my bed, my money, and my future with him.” I carried the suitcase to the front door and left it there. He picked it up… and left. I didn’t look back. For the first time in ages, I felt the air was mine. That my home was mine. That my soul finally had space for itself. Two months later, our marriage was officially over.

“I Just Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Walked Out Three months – that’s how long this madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with little Max screaming so loudly the neighbours banged on the walls. Three months of Marina shuffling around like a zombie, red-eyed and trembling. Meanwhile, her husband Igor stormed around the flat, dark and brooding. “You have no idea how rough I look at work!” he snapped, staring in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina said nothing. She fed the baby, rocked him, and fed him again. A never-ending cycle. And somewhere nearby, Igor – her husband who only complained instead of helping. “Listen, maybe your mum can look after him?” he suggested one evening as he stretched after a hot shower, fresh and rested. “I’m thinking of heading off for a week to my mate’s cottage?” Marina froze, bottle in hand. “I need a break, Marina. Seriously.” Igor started packing his gym bag. “I’ve barely slept normally lately.” Did he think she slept? Her eyes glued shut from tiredness, but every time she lay down, Max started crying. Fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “Yeah, well, of course, it’s hard,” Igor shrugged, stuffing his favourite shirt in the bag. “But my job’s serious. Responsibility. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Suddenly, Marina saw their family from the outside: her in a stained dressing gown, messy hair, a wailing baby in her arms; and Igor packing a bag, running away. “I just want to live for myself and get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not looking at her. The door slammed. Left in the flat with Max’s sobs, Marina felt everything collapsing inside. A week passed. Then another. Igor rang three times – distant, polite, like chatting with an old school friend. “I’ll come at the weekend.” He didn’t. “I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.” He wasn’t. Marina rocked Max, changed nappies, made bottles. Snatched thirty minutes of sleep between feeds. “Everything okay?” asked her friend. “Great,” Marina lied. Why does she lie? She’s ashamed. Ashamed her husband left, that she’s alone with a baby. But worse was still to come. In the shop, she met Igor’s colleague. “Where’s your man?” Lena asked. “Working a lot.” “I see. Men are all the same – as soon as there’s a baby, they’re always ‘working’. By the way, does Igor go on work trips often?” “What trips?” “Well, he went to Brighton for a seminar last week. Showed me photos.” Brighton? When?! Marina remembered: last week, Igor didn’t call for three days. He’d said he was busy. Not busy. Relaxing in Brighton. Igor came home on Saturday. With flowers. “Sorry I’ve been away. Busy at work.” “You went to Brighton?” He froze, holding the bouquet. “Who told you?” “Doesn’t matter. Why lie?” “I wasn’t lying. I thought you’d be upset if I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere! “Igor, I need help. I haven’t slept in weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what money? You don’t give me anything.” “What do you mean? I pay rent, the bills.” “What about food? Nappies? Medicine?” Silence. Then: “Maybe you could go back to work? Even part-time? No point staying at home. We’ll hire a nanny.” “Staying at home,” as if it was a holiday! At that moment, Marina looked at her husband and finally saw: this man didn’t love her. Not at all. Never had. “Leave.” “What?” “Go. And don’t come back until you decide what matters more to you – family or freedom.” Igor took his keys and left. Two days passed; then he texted: “I’m thinking.” Marina didn’t sleep. She thought too. Imagine, for the first time in months, being alone with your own thoughts. Her mum called: “Marina, how are you? Igor’s not home?” “He’s away for work.” Another lie. “Should I come help?” “I’ll manage.” Her mum came anyway. “How are things here?” She glanced around. “Heavens, Marina, look at yourself!” She looked in the mirror – she looked dreadful. “And Igor?” “At work.” “At eight at night?” Marina was silent. “What’s going on?” Then Marina burst out crying. Real crying, loud, desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Her mum was quiet. Then: “What a scoundrel. Rare.” Marina was stunned. Her mum never swore. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this is a new low.” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I should’ve understood?” “Marina, is it hard for you?” Such simple words made Marina realise: she’d thought only about Igor, his comfort and fatigue. But about herself? Nothing. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better alone than with someone like him.” Igor came back Saturday. Sun-tanned. Clearly “thinking” at the cottage. “Shall we talk?” “Let’s.” They sat at the table: “Look, Marina, I get it’s tough. But it’s not easy for me either. Maybe we can work something out? I’ll help with money, visit. But for now, I’d rather live separately.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, about £150.” £150. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. And don’t come back.” “Marina, I’m offering a fair solution!” “Solution? You want your freedom? Where’s mine?” Then Igor said the line that made it clear: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mother!” Marina looked at him: this was the real Igor. Immature, selfish – as if motherhood were a prison sentence. “Tomorrow I’m filing for child support. You’ll pay the legal minimum.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I absolutely will.” He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt she could breathe. Max cried, but now she knew she’d be okay. A year went by. Igor tried to come back twice. “Marina, shall we try again?” “Too late.” He complained Marina was cruel. Not convincing. Marina found a nanny, started work as a nurse. At work, she met Andrew, a doctor. “Got any children?” “A son.” “Where’s the dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought a toy car for Max. They played together and laughed. Soon, they all went to the park together. Igor heard. He called: “He’s only a year old and you’re already out with men!” “What did you expect? That I’d just wait for you?” “But you’re a mother!” “Yes, I am. So what?” He never called again. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he came straight away. When Marina was exhausted, he’d take them both to his cottage for a rest. Now Max is two. He calls Andrew ‘uncle’. Can’t remember Igor. Igor remarried. Pays child support. Marina isn’t angry. Now, finally, she’s living for herself. And it feels wonderful.