Have you ever known what it’s like to live in someone else’s flat for years on end, never sure when you’ll be shown the door? My husband, Oliver, and I have been renting for seven long years. Time and again, the landlords would drop the same old line: *We need the place back*—and just like that, we’d be packing our bags. One year, their son’s university plans fell through. Another, the neighbours turned unbearable, or the rent went up without a word of warning. All this time, we’ve put off having children—how could we start a family when we didn’t even have a home?
We wouldn’t have minded living with family—mine or his. But their houses are small, and there’s nothing they can spare to help. Oliver and I both graduated years ago, married in our final term, dreaming we’d be young, lively parents in tune with our kids. Now, I’m not even sure I want that anymore. What if the child grows up and feels as foreign to us as today’s youth with their baffling ways?
We both work, scrimp, save—no meals out, no holidays—all for a place of our own. But no matter how hard we try, it’s never enough. And as if that weren’t enough, Oliver’s father’s heart began failing. Not an old man, but his health gave out, and now Oliver pays for his care out of pocket. Of course, it gutted our savings further. But what can you do? Family’s family.
Then one day, my mother—Eleanor Whitmore—announced she’d inherited a sizeable sum from her aunt. She wanted to help us, to top up our savings so we could finally buy even a tiny one-bed flat. Over the moon, we hunted for estate agents, then decided to scout for places ourselves.
At first, the listings seemed promising—until we tried haggling and got shut down instantly. Then came the reality: a dingy studio with no proper windows, or a cupboard billed as a *cosy nest*. Still, we pressed on—giving up sleep, time, energy—all for the dream of our own walls.
Then Oliver visited his parents. He came back silent, distant. That evening, he sat me down. His father was in bad shape. Surgery might be needed. The odds were slim, but it was a chance. And Oliver believed the right thing was to give Mum’s gift towards his treatment. *A life’s worth more than bricks and mortar,* he said. *We’ll save again. But Dad might not have that time.*
He spoke with such raw pain, such conviction. I stayed quiet. Then I tried to reason—it wasn’t our money yet. Mum hadn’t handed it over. She’d meant it for us, not his family. Yes, his father’s illness was terrible. But how could I just redirect her money to another cause?
After that, Oliver looked at me like I was a stranger. Called me selfish. Said if it were *my* father, I wouldn’t hesitate. Now, when we speak, it’s colder than flatmates passing in the hall. And I’m no longer certain a home’s worth having if we’d live in it as strangers.
When Mum heard Oliver’s plan, she refused outright to transfer the money early. *Only on the day contracts are signed,* she said. *When the flat is bought and done.*
I understand. It’s her money. Meant to help *us*, not in-laws. But it still aches. Because I don’t want to lose my husband. I just wanted a home. A nest. For us. Instead, I got distrust, resentment, ice.
Everyone’s taken sides—his mates back him, mine stand with me. Me? I just want to live in peace, to love and be loved. But it seems that’s harder than scraping together a mortgage.
So tell me—who’s in the right?
