I always thought of myself as the sort of mum who’d move mountains for her kids. From sleepless nights when my son was tiny to the endless worrying when he hit his teens—I gave it all, gladly. Went grey early, sacrificed my fair share, but never complained. After all, Daniel was my one and only. So when he turned 31, I figured it was finally time to spare a thought for myself.
Daniel got married eight years ago. We split the wedding costs with his in-laws, 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 decent part of London afterwards. I was proud they were managing on their own—not every young couple can swing that these days.
But a few years later, money got tight. Daniel came to me for help. I had a bit of passive income—a flat I’d inherited from my ex-father-in-law, rented out to a lovely bloke. Quiet, paid on time, no fuss. But when I found out my daughter-in-law was expecting, I thought, *Well, family comes first*.
I gave the tenant notice and handed the flat to Daniel and his wife. *I’ll skip the fancy seafood for a while*, I told myself. *Small sacrifice*. Plus, my daughter-in-law suddenly turned sweet—inviting me round, asking my opinion.
Three years passed. Three years of them living there rent-free. And I just… couldn’t bring myself to ask them to leave. You know how it is—when everyone’s getting along, it feels like a trap. Hard to be the “bad guy” who brings up the bills. But I started noticing the toll—constant fatigue, putting on weight, eating cheap meals. All for them.
Then one day, I worked up the nerve. Casually, no drama, I asked Daniel, “Love, don’t you think it’s time to find your own place? The commute’s a nightmare, and there’s loads of options.” He brushed it off with a joke. My daughter-in-law chimed in, “The little one’s still so small—just a bit longer?”
I tried explaining that being a mum doesn’t mean setting yourself on fire forever. That they could find a place closer to nursery. But the conversation soured. They took offence. And I ended up feeling guilty—for wanting to live like a normal person.
A week later, the in-laws invited me to some cousin’s birthday—someone I’d supposedly met at the wedding. Didn’t fancy going, but they insisted: “No gifts, just come!” So I went.
Big mistake. All eyes were on me. The main topic? My “heartlessness”—how could I turf out my own son’s family? What mattered more: money or their happiness? Ten people, all ganging up. No one cared how *I* felt.
In the end, they “compromised.” Daniel’s family would stay, but now pay “a token rent”—half the going rate. Practically pennies. And I’d officially be the landlady, with rights to demand repairs, timely payments, etc. Sounds fair? It wasn’t. I was steamrolled. Just too tired to fight.
I know this “agreement” will backfire. There’ll be rows, nitpicking. But what choice do I have? Now my line is: if they break it, they fix it. I’d love to believe we’ll stay on good terms. But if not—well, that’s the price of *their* choice. I tried doing it differently. But no one listened.
