I always was one of those women who live for their children. From sleepless nights when my son was little to fretting over his future when he grew into a teenager. My hair went grey early, I gave up so much, made countless sacrifices—but I did it all with love. After all, Daniel is my one and only. And when he turned thirty-one, I finally thought it might be time to put myself first, just a little.
Daniel got married eight years ago. His in-laws and I covered the wedding, and as a gift, I handed them an envelope of cash—let them decide how to spend it. The newlyweds rented a nice two-bed flat in a good part of town right after. I was proud they managed on their own—not every young couple can afford to live independently.
But a few years in, money got tight. That’s when Daniel came to me for help. I had a steady income—letting out the flat I inherited from my ex-husband’s father. The tenant was perfect: a quiet man, no trouble, always paid on time. But when I found out my daughter-in-law was pregnant, I knew I had to step in.
I gave the tenant notice and handed the flat to Daniel and his wife. I thought—alright, I’ll skip my favourite prawns and fish for a while, make do. But at least the family will be sorted. And suddenly, my daughter-in-law was all warmth—inviting me round, asking my opinion.
Three years passed. They lived there without paying a penny, and I couldn’t bring myself to push them out. You know how it is when things are pleasant—you feel trapped. Hard to be the “bad guy” who brings up what’s owed. But I started noticing how worn out I felt—constantly tired, sluggish, putting on weight. Eating cheap junk because I was pinching pennies. All for them.
Then one day, I finally spoke up. Calmly, no accusations, just asked Daniel, “Don’t you think it’s time to start looking for your own place? The commute’s a slog from here, and there’s plenty out there.” He just brushed it off with a joke. His wife chimed in—”the little one’s still too young, let us stay a while longer.”
I tried explaining that being a mother didn’t mean sacrificing myself forever. That they could find somewhere closer to the nursery. But the conversation spiralled. They took offence. And I? I just felt guilty—guilty for wanting to live decently.
A week later, the in-laws invited me to some relative’s birthday—someone I’d supposedly met at the wedding. I didn’t want to go, but they insisted: “No gift, just come.” So I went.
And there was my surprise. Every eye in the room fixed on me. The whole evening turned into a lecture on my “cruelty”—how could I turf out a young family? What mattered more: money or my son and grandson’s comfort? Ten people, all judging. Not one listened to how things had been for me.
In the end, they decided Daniel’s family would stay—but now they’d pay a token amount, half the market rate. Less, really. And officially, the flat stays mine—I can demand repairs, timely payments, all that. Supposedly fair, but I was railroaded. I’m just exhausted.
Something tells me this “agreement” won’t end well. Fights, complaints—they’re coming. But I’ve got no choice. My new rule? If they break it, they fix it on their own dime. I’d like to believe we’ll keep things civil. But if not—well, that’s the price of their choice. I wanted a different way… But no one listened.
