**A Diary Entry: Our Home, Our Rules**
We’re buying a flat not to live with my mother-in-law—I refuse to get a three-bedroom just to invite that nightmare into our lives.
My husband and I have dreamed of our own place for years. We’ve secured a mortgage and even borrowed money from his mother. She isn’t wicked, but her suffocating attention drives me up the wall. After her husband passed, she made it her mission to smother everyone with her “care,” and it’s poisoning our peace. She owns a spacious flat in central Manchester, but I’ve made up my mind: a cramped space of our own is better than living under her shadow.
We considered a three-bedder in a new build—one tiny room perfect for the walk-in wardrobe I’ve always wanted. But my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, kicked up a fuss. “What a waste!” she huffed. “Where will guests sleep? What if relatives visit?” Her pointed glare said it all: she meant herself. Lately, she’s lingered at ours till all hours, as if dreading her empty flat. That room would be her excuse to loiter indefinitely—or worse, move in.
I’m not blind. Margaret’s loneliness has twisted her kindness into control. She calls three times a day “just to check,” floods us with unsolicited advice, even fusses over how we should furnish *our* home. I won’t share it with her! My husband, Oliver, and I are buying this place to build *our* life—not cater to her whims, no matter how “sweet” she plays it.
I drew the line: no three-bed flats. “I want your mother over for Christmas, not every weekend,” I told Oliver. “If she wants a guest room, she can convert her own.” He argued she just misses us, that she’s aging and struggles alone. But I stood firm. I won’t trade my sanity for her clingy concern. I’d rather lose the wardrobe than let our home become her annexe.
Guests can make do with an airbed. And if Margaret tries to stay? I’ll invent a hundred reasons to send her home. This is *our* house, *our* life—and I won’t let anyone, not even her, steal that from us.
