We aren’t buying a flat to live with my mother-in-law: I refuse a three-bedroom just to avoid that nightmare.
My husband and I dream of having our own place. We’ve already taken out a mortgage and even borrowed money from his mother. She isn’t wicked, but her clinginess drives me up the wall. After her husband died, she made it her mission to smother everyone around her, and it’s poisoning our lives. She has a spacious flat in central Manchester, but I’ve made up my mind: I’d rather something cramped than share it with her. I won’t let her shadow loom over our home.
We looked at a three-bedroom in a new development. One room was tiny—perfect for the walk-in wardrobe I’ve always wanted. But my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, kicked up a fuss. She declared turning it into a wardrobe was nonsense. “Where will guests sleep? What if family visits?” she pressed, drilling me with her stare. I knew instantly—she meant herself. Lately, she lingers at ours till late, as if dreading her empty flat. Her words were a sentence: if we got three bedrooms, she’d loiter forever, or worse—move in.
I’m not blind. I see where this leads. Margaret is lonely, and her care is suffocating. She rings three times a day to “check in,” brings unsolicited advice, even tries dictating how we furnish the place. I refuse to share my home! My husband, Oliver, and I are buying this to build our life, not indulge her whims, however “sweet” she seems.
I laid down the law: no three-bedrooms. “I’ll see your mum on holidays, nothing more,” I told Oliver. “If she wants a guest room, she can make one in hers.” He argued she just wants to be close, that she’s ageing and struggling alone. But I won’t budge. I won’t sacrifice my peace for her smothering “care.” I’d rather lose the wardrobe than turn our home into her annexe.
If guests come, they’ll sleep on an airbed. If Margaret tries to stay, I’ll invent reasons to send her back. This is our house, our life, and I won’t let anyone—not even her—steal that from us.
