— I’ll Be Moving in With You for a While, — Announced My Mother-in-Law. Natasha’s Response Left Her Speechless

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 11 minViews 1

Ill have to live with you for a while, declared Margaret, mother-in-law. Emilys reply shocked her.

Listen, Em, Tom ran his hands nervously through his hair, Mums just in a bit of a pickle.

In a pickle? Emily sat back in her armchair, eyes fixed on her husband. Last week she had her own flat, a steady job, grand plans for retirement. And suddenlyjust like that!shes desperately in need of our help?

Tom exhaled heavily. He knew he had to lay out the whole truth. But how do you explain to your wife that your mothers made a mess of thingsagain?

It all started three days ago. That unfortunate phone call.

Margaret called her son early Saturday. Her voice was strange, unusually soft.

Tommy, darling. Ive run into a spot of bother.

What sort of bother, Mum?

Well she hesitated. Remember I told you about Mr. Taylor, my neighbour?

Tom tensed. Old Mr. Taylorthe pensioner-adventurer whod been courting his mother six months back. Tom had warned her he was iffy, but she hadnt listened.

What about him?

Tommy, her voice shook, he was a conman. I… I lent him some money, a lot of money, with a written agreement. Only hes vanished, and now Ive found out the agreement isnt worth a penny.

Tom felt cold dread creep in.

How much money, Mum?

Nearly all my savings, Margaret whispered. AndI remortgaged my flat. Thought Id pay it off quick, but now… The bank wants it settled early, and I havent got a thing.

Mum, how could you?

He said he was starting his own business! Promised to repay with interest in six months! Margaret wept. I thought maybe wed get married. I wanted to help.

Mum, its alright. What do we do now?

Tommy, her usual determination returned, Ive got a plan. Ill sell the flat quick, pay off the bank, then move in with you. Youve got loads of space in that three-bedroom.

Toms head began to throb.

But Mum, its Emilys flat.

Tom! Margaret bristled. Have you forgotten everything Ive done for you? And now youre telling me your she caught herself, your wife can turn your own mother out on the street?

Nobodys turning you out.

Good! Her tone shifted to business. Sorted, then. Ive already spoken to the estate agent. Everythingll be settled by Wednesday, and my things will arrive Thursday. Youll clear a room. I wont take up much space.

Mum, I should speak with Emily.

Whats there to speak about? Steel in her voice. Are you not master of your own house? Its your family! Its your duty to look after your mother!

Officially, the flat belongs to Emily, Tom tried to explain.

Oh, I see! Margaret sounded hurt. So youre living off her, are you? Kept man? Shameful, Tom!

Mum, its not like that.

All clear, she cut him off coldly. Ill make final arrangements tomorrow morning. Come help with the move!

The call ended, short and sharp.

Tom stared at his mobile and groaned. How on earth would he explain this to Emily?

Emily returned from yoga around seven, cheerful and glowing. Tom was cookingalways a sign something serious weighed on him.

Whats up? she asked, hanging her coat.

Mum phoned.

Emilys smile faded a little. Her relationship with Margaret had always been, well, frosty.

And what did she want?

Shes gotten herself into quite a mess.

What kind of mess?

Tom recounted the story about Mr. Taylor and all his dodgy dealings. Emily listened quietly, just shaking her head now and then.

And now? she prompted when he finished.

She wants to move in.

I see. Emily sat by the table. So what do you think?

I think shes got no other option.

Really? Emily lifted an eyebrow. What about renting a place? Staying with other family? Social services for pensionersthose exist.

Em, its my mum.

And so she gets to decide how we live? Emily leaned back, voice steady. Tom, lets be honestyour mother cant stand me. After four years of marriage, she never misses a chance to remind me Im a worthless wife.

Tom said nothing. It was trueand pointless to argue.

Remember at Vickys birthday? Emily went on. She said, A proper housewife never buys ready-made dumplingsshe makes her own. After Id got home at nine!

She wasnt being malicious.

Oh, wasn’t she? Emily laughed bitterly. Her hinting that decent wives have children within two years? Her habit of rearranging my things to the proper place?

Tom rubbed his forehead. All those little things, each small, together painted a glum picture.

Em, shes just… controlling.

Exactly! Emily stood up. And you want her in our home? Dictating our lives?

But where will she go?

Tom, shes an adult. Let her figure her own way outshe created the mess, not us, Emily said firmly. Shell have money from the saleshe can rent. Or buy somewhere smaller.

Thatll only cover the mortgage.

Then social services. Or she can find a job. Plenty work into their seventies.

Em, thats a bit harsh.

No, Emily said, calm but firm. I wont live under the same roof as someone who despises me. Its not about the flat. I wont have my home made a battleground.

Maybe just for a while? Tom tried. Till she sorts something?

For a while? Emilys face softened, almost sadly. Tom, do you truly believe shell look for alternatives? Shes made sure she has nowhere else to go.

You think she planned it?

What do you think? Emily gazed out the window. A seventy-year-old woman, lifelong accountant, doesnt realise you shouldnt give a stranger all your savings? She saw a chancewanted to move in with us, and now shes set the stage.

Tom was silent. Deep down, he knew Emily might be right.

Tom, Emily said gently, turning to him, I love you. But I wont let anyoneyour mother includedwreck our marriage.

He walked over and hugged her.

So what do I do?

What any grown man should do, she said. Tell your mum straightwe have our own family. You love her, but youre living your own life now.

She wont accept it.

Then thats her concern, not yours.

Next day, Tom phoned his mum. The call was difficult.

What do you mean, were not ready? Margaret fumed. Ive made arrangements! The flats sold!

Mum, we could help financially. Help you find a rental, pay first few months.

Money? she scoffed. I have my own son, my own family! Why would I want charity?

Mumits not charity. Its my decision.

Your decision? Pain edged her voice. I gave you my whole life! Every good thing! Is this thanks?

Mum, I am grateful. But Im a grown man. I have my own family.

What family! Margaret blew up. Family is ME!

Mum, thats enough.

Oh, is it? Her tone iced over. Fine. Youve chosen. Live your way. Just rememberwhen you hit trouble, dont expect me to answer.

The line clicked dead.

Tom told Emily everything.

She says Ive betrayed her, he sighed.

Classic guilt trip, Emily replied calmly. Shell adjust. You know, after Dad died, my mum tried to move in too. Sulked when I said no. Now shes gratefulshe has her own life, her own hobbies.

And if she really gets ill?

Then well help. But she doesnt have to live here for that.

A week passed, tense and silent. Then Toms sister, Claire, rang.

Tom, she said, worried, Mums in hospital. Heart attack.

What? What happened?

Doctors say it was stress. Selling the flat, loads of worry. Plus your row.

Toms guilt flooded back.

How is she?

Lying there, whimpering. Keeps asking about you. Says, Hope my son regrets everything when Im gone.

Claire, thats

I know, its all manipulation, Claire sighed. Doesnt stop me worrying, though.

That evening, Tom shared the news with Emily.

Lets visit her, Emily suggested suddenly.

Really?

As sure as ever. She should see we care.

Margaret looked small and frail in her hospital bed. When they arrived, she turned away to the wall, pointedly.

Mum, Tom said softly. How are you feeling?

And you care? she whispered without turning.

Margaret, Emily stepped in. Can we talk?

Margaret turned, slowly.

Whats there to say?

That youve landed in a tough place. That were ready to helpbut in the way were able to, not just any way.

I dont want your pity.

Its not pity, Emily said patiently. Its care. Well help find you a lovely place, pay the rent. Visit, have you over. But we cant live together.

Why not? Margarets voice, for once, lacked its edge.

Because we all need space. Youre used to running your own home. We have our habits, our own rhythm.

And what if I fall ill?

Then well come immediately. Whenever you need us. But thats not a reason to share the same roof.

Margaret was silent a long time, then quietly asked,

Youd really help me find somewhere nice?

Absolutely, Emily nodded.

And youll visit?

Of course! Invite you for Christmas, for Sunday roasts. Youre grandma to our future kids.

Margarets eyes glistened.

Future?

Were planning, Emily smiled.

I thought Margaret whispered. Thought youd never want to see me.

We do, Mum. Always.

A month later, they found Margaret a cosy two-bedroom flat near the park. Helped her settle in, even introduced her to neighbours. She joined a crafts club, made a new frienda lively pensioner like herself.

Now she visited every week. And when, a year later, Emily gave birth to a daughter, Margaret became the best grandma in England.

You know, she said to Emily one afternoon, you did right not letting me move in. Id have missed so much if Id come here. Now Ive got new things in my life!

Emily smiled.

We did the right thing.

Cradling his newborn daughter, Tom thought about how vital it is to say noeven to those dearest to you. Sometimes, that very no is what keeps love safe.

If you found yourself in this strange dilemma, with family wanting you to solve their problems at your own expensewhat would you do? Share your thoughts belowYears later, on an autumn afternoon painted gold by falling leaves, Margaret pushed her granddaughters swing gently in the park. Emily watched them from a bench, a steaming cup in her hand, while Tom snapped photos, laughter filling the crisp air. Margarets stern face had softened; her eyes sparkled as she listened to the childs storiesso wild, so wonderful, so hers.

Afterwards, walking home together, Margaret slipped her hand into Emilys. You know, she said quietly, I used to think family meant living under one roof, every day, every decision. Now I know that love is bigger than walls and doors. Its carrying each other from afar, letting life bloom in every corner.

Emily squeezed her hand. Thats how roots grow strong.

Tom caught up, slinging an arm around them both. With the sun setting behind, three generations strolled onwardseach with their own space, yet together in ways that mattered most.

And, as dusk melted into night, Margaret looked up at the winking stars, her heart quietly grateful. Sometimes, love is learning to let goand in the gentle space left behind, something truly beautiful can grow.

“I Just Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Walked Out Three months – that’s how long this madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with little Max screaming so loudly the neighbours banged on the walls. Three months of Marina shuffling around like a zombie, red-eyed and trembling. Meanwhile, her husband Igor stormed around the flat, dark and brooding. “You have no idea how rough I look at work!” he snapped, staring in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina said nothing. She fed the baby, rocked him, and fed him again. A never-ending cycle. And somewhere nearby, Igor – her husband who only complained instead of helping. “Listen, maybe your mum can look after him?” he suggested one evening as he stretched after a hot shower, fresh and rested. “I’m thinking of heading off for a week to my mate’s cottage?” Marina froze, bottle in hand. “I need a break, Marina. Seriously.” Igor started packing his gym bag. “I’ve barely slept normally lately.” Did he think she slept? Her eyes glued shut from tiredness, but every time she lay down, Max started crying. Fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “Yeah, well, of course, it’s hard,” Igor shrugged, stuffing his favourite shirt in the bag. “But my job’s serious. Responsibility. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Suddenly, Marina saw their family from the outside: her in a stained dressing gown, messy hair, a wailing baby in her arms; and Igor packing a bag, running away. “I just want to live for myself and get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not looking at her. The door slammed. Left in the flat with Max’s sobs, Marina felt everything collapsing inside. A week passed. Then another. Igor rang three times – distant, polite, like chatting with an old school friend. “I’ll come at the weekend.” He didn’t. “I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.” He wasn’t. Marina rocked Max, changed nappies, made bottles. Snatched thirty minutes of sleep between feeds. “Everything okay?” asked her friend. “Great,” Marina lied. Why does she lie? She’s ashamed. Ashamed her husband left, that she’s alone with a baby. But worse was still to come. In the shop, she met Igor’s colleague. “Where’s your man?” Lena asked. “Working a lot.” “I see. Men are all the same – as soon as there’s a baby, they’re always ‘working’. By the way, does Igor go on work trips often?” “What trips?” “Well, he went to Brighton for a seminar last week. Showed me photos.” Brighton? When?! Marina remembered: last week, Igor didn’t call for three days. He’d said he was busy. Not busy. Relaxing in Brighton. Igor came home on Saturday. With flowers. “Sorry I’ve been away. Busy at work.” “You went to Brighton?” He froze, holding the bouquet. “Who told you?” “Doesn’t matter. Why lie?” “I wasn’t lying. I thought you’d be upset if I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere! “Igor, I need help. I haven’t slept in weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what money? You don’t give me anything.” “What do you mean? I pay rent, the bills.” “What about food? Nappies? Medicine?” Silence. Then: “Maybe you could go back to work? Even part-time? No point staying at home. We’ll hire a nanny.” “Staying at home,” as if it was a holiday! At that moment, Marina looked at her husband and finally saw: this man didn’t love her. Not at all. Never had. “Leave.” “What?” “Go. And don’t come back until you decide what matters more to you – family or freedom.” Igor took his keys and left. Two days passed; then he texted: “I’m thinking.” Marina didn’t sleep. She thought too. Imagine, for the first time in months, being alone with your own thoughts. Her mum called: “Marina, how are you? Igor’s not home?” “He’s away for work.” Another lie. “Should I come help?” “I’ll manage.” Her mum came anyway. “How are things here?” She glanced around. “Heavens, Marina, look at yourself!” She looked in the mirror – she looked dreadful. “And Igor?” “At work.” “At eight at night?” Marina was silent. “What’s going on?” Then Marina burst out crying. Real crying, loud, desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Her mum was quiet. Then: “What a scoundrel. Rare.” Marina was stunned. Her mum never swore. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this is a new low.” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Maybe I should’ve understood?” “Marina, is it hard for you?” Such simple words made Marina realise: she’d thought only about Igor, his comfort and fatigue. But about herself? Nothing. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better alone than with someone like him.” Igor came back Saturday. Sun-tanned. Clearly “thinking” at the cottage. “Shall we talk?” “Let’s.” They sat at the table: “Look, Marina, I get it’s tough. But it’s not easy for me either. Maybe we can work something out? I’ll help with money, visit. But for now, I’d rather live separately.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, about £150.” £150. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. And don’t come back.” “Marina, I’m offering a fair solution!” “Solution? You want your freedom? Where’s mine?” Then Igor said the line that made it clear: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mother!” Marina looked at him: this was the real Igor. Immature, selfish – as if motherhood were a prison sentence. “Tomorrow I’m filing for child support. You’ll pay the legal minimum.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I absolutely will.” He left, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt she could breathe. Max cried, but now she knew she’d be okay. A year went by. Igor tried to come back twice. “Marina, shall we try again?” “Too late.” He complained Marina was cruel. Not convincing. Marina found a nanny, started work as a nurse. At work, she met Andrew, a doctor. “Got any children?” “A son.” “Where’s the dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought a toy car for Max. They played together and laughed. Soon, they all went to the park together. Igor heard. He called: “He’s only a year old and you’re already out with men!” “What did you expect? That I’d just wait for you?” “But you’re a mother!” “Yes, I am. So what?” He never called again. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he came straight away. When Marina was exhausted, he’d take them both to his cottage for a rest. Now Max is two. He calls Andrew ‘uncle’. Can’t remember Igor. Igor remarried. Pays child support. Marina isn’t angry. Now, finally, she’s living for herself. And it feels wonderful.

“I Just Want to Live for Myself and Finally Get Some Sleep,” Said My Husband as He Walked Out Three months—that’s how long the madness lasted. Three months of sleepless nights, with baby Max screaming so loudly the neighbours banged on the wall. Three months of Marina shuffling around like a zombie, eyes red and hands shaking. Meanwhile, Igor stomped about the house, grumpy as a raincloud. “Can you believe I look like a tramp at work?” he snapped one morning, staring in the mirror. “Bags under my eyes down to my knees.” Marina kept quiet. She fed the baby, rocked him, fed him again—a never-ending cycle. And Igor, her husband, was nearby, complaining instead of helping. “Hey, maybe your mum could watch him for a bit?” he suggested one evening, stretching out after his shower, fresh and rested. “I was thinking of going to my mate’s place in the countryside for a week.” Marina froze with the bottle in her hand. “I need a break, Marina. Honestly.” Igor began stuffing clothes into his gym bag. “I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep in ages.” And she—does she sleep?! Her eyelids droop, but as soon as she lies down, Max starts crying. Fourth time tonight. “It’s hard for me too,” Marina whispered. “Yeah, I get that it’s hard,” Igor waved her off, shoving his favourite shirt into the bag. “But my job’s serious; I have real responsibilities. Can’t show up to clients looking like this.” Then something strange happened. Marina saw them from the outside: her, in a stained dressing gown, hair a mess, baby wailing in her arms; and Igor, packing his suitcase, escaping. “I want to live for myself and get some sleep,” Igor muttered, not even looking her way. The door slammed. Marina stood alone in the flat with her crying son, feeling everything collapse inside. A week passed. Then another. Igor called maybe three times—asked how things were. His voice was distant, like he was chatting with an old acquaintance. “I’ll come at the weekend.” He didn’t. “I’ll definitely be there tomorrow.” Again, he didn’t show. Marina rocked her screaming baby, changed nappies, prepared formula. She slept in half-hour bursts between feeds. “Everything alright?” her friend asked. “Great,” she lied. Why did she lie? The shame. Shame that her husband had left, that she was alone with a newborn. As if things couldn’t get worse. But the real fun began at the shop—she bumped into Igor’s coworker. “Where’s your husband?” Lena asked. “Working lots.” “Figures. Men are all alike—once a baby comes, they’re always busy at work.” Lena leaned in: “Does Igor travel for work much?” “Travel?” “Well, he just went up to Manchester for that seminar, didn’t he? Showed us the pictures.” Manchester? When? Marina remembered: last week, Igor hadn’t called for three days. Said he was busy. Busy? No. Off holidaying in Manchester. Igor turned up on Saturday. With flowers. “Sorry I was gone so long. Busy at work.” “You went to Manchester?” He froze with the bouquet in hand. “Who said?” “It doesn’t matter who. Why lie?” “I’m not lying. Just thought you’d be upset I went without you.” Without her?! With a baby, she couldn’t go anywhere! “Igor, I need help. I haven’t slept in weeks.” “We’ll hire a nanny.” “With what money? You don’t give me any.” “What do you mean? I pay the rent and bills.” “And for food? Nappies? Medicine?” Silence. Then: “Maybe you could go back to work? Even part-time? No sense sitting at home. We’ll hire a nanny.” Sitting at home—as if that’s a break! Marina picked up her son, looked at Igor, and understood: he didn’t love her. Never had. “Get out.” “What?” “Go. And don’t come back until you decide what matters—your family or your freedom.” Igor grabbed his keys and left. Two days later, he texted: “Thinking.” Meanwhile, Marina didn’t sleep. And she thought too. Imagine being alone with your own thoughts for the first time in months. Her mum rang: “How are you, Marina? Igor not home?” “On a business trip.” Another lie. “Shall I come over? Help out?” “I’ll manage.” But her mum came anyway. “How’s things?” Mum looked around. “Good grief, Marina, look at yourself!” Marina glanced in the mirror. She looked a state. “And Igor?” “Working.” “At eight in the evening?” Marina was silent. “What’s going on?” And Marina broke down. Really, like a child—loud and desperate. “He left. Said he wants to live for himself.” Mum was silent. Then: “What a bastard. Utter bastard.” Marina was stunned—her mum never swore. “I always thought Igor was weak. But this much…” “Mum, maybe I’m wrong? Should I have been more understanding?” “Marina, isn’t it hard for you?” That simple question made Marina realise: she’d only ever worried about Igor. His tiredness, his comfort. Never about herself. “What should I do?” “Live. Without him. Better on your own than with someone like that.” Igor came back Saturday. Tanned. Clearly “thinking” at his mate’s place. “Can we talk?” “Alright.” They sat at the table: “Look, Marina, I know it’s hard for you. But it’s not easy for me either. Can we agree? I’ll send money and visit. Just need to live separately for now.” “How much?” “What?” “Money. How much?” “Well, ten thousand.” Ten thousand. For a child, food, medicine. “Igor, get lost.” “What?!” “You heard me. Don’t come back.” “Marina, this is business!” “Business? You want freedom? Where’s mine?” Then Igor said the line that changed everything: “What freedom do you have? You’re a mother!” Marina looked at him—this was the real Igor. An immature, self-centred man who thought motherhood was a life sentence. “I’ll file for child support tomorrow. A quarter of your salary. By law.” “You wouldn’t dare!” “I would.” He stormed out, slamming the door. For the first time, Marina felt she could breathe easier. Max cried. But she knew now: she’d manage. A year passed. Igor tried coming back twice. “Marina, shall we give it another go?” “Too late.” Igor whined that Marina was a “hard cow.” She didn’t care. Marina hired a nanny and started working as a nurse. At the hospital, she met Dr. Andrew. “Any children?” “A son.” “And Dad?” “Living for himself.” She introduced them. Andrew brought toy cars for Max. They played and laughed together. Soon, the three of them were always out at the park. Igor found out and called: “The kid’s only a year old, and you’re out with other men!” “And what? Should I wait for you?” “But you’re a mother!” “Yes, I am. So?” He never called again. Andrew was different. When Max got sick, he was there. When Marina was exhausted, he took them to his cottage in the country. Now Max is two. He calls Andrew “Uncle.” He doesn’t remember Igor. Igor’s remarried. Pays child support. Marina doesn’t resent him. She’s living for herself now too. And it’s wonderful.

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I Paid for My Stepdaughter’s Fifteenth Birthday Party, but Her Father Went Back to His Ex-Wife For ten years, I raised this child as my own. I changed nappies when she was little. I took her to lessons every week. I helped her with homework, taught her to look after herself, hugged her through her first heartbreak. And she called me “Mum.” Not “Dad’s wife.” Not “Stepmother.” Mum. For her fifteenth, I’d spent months planning the celebration. I booked a lovely venue, ordered a dress, arranged music, and catering for loads of guests. I spent my savings, but I knew it was worth it. This was my child. Or so I thought. Three weeks before the party, her biological mother turned up. The woman who’d been gone for years—no support, no calls, no presence. Suddenly she was in my house, upset, talking about wanting a fresh start. I should’ve known something was wrong. But I trusted. On the day of the party, I arrived early to check the final details. The hall was perfect—decorated, arranged, everything in place. While making sure it was all just right, someone tapped me on the shoulder. They told me I should leave. That this was a “family moment.” That I wasn’t needed. I tried to explain that I’d raised this child. That I’d paid for everything. But it changed nothing. The man I’d spent years with simply said, “It’s best for the child this way.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t shout. I just walked away. That evening, as I packed my things into boxes, the doorbell rang. It was late. I opened the door. There she was—in her party dress, crying, exhausted. “I left,” she told me. “I couldn’t stay there without you.” I tried to tell her she needed to be with her parents, but she hugged me and whispered: “You’re my mum. You know everything about me. You’ve always been there.” I held her tight. She told me that when they thanked the “family” at the party, she asked where I was. They told her I’d chosen not to come. So she told them the truth—in front of everyone. And she left. She stayed with me. We watched films late into the night, ate pizza, talked. For the first time in days, I felt at peace. The next day, I had lots of phone calls. I didn’t answer. Months later, everything was over, officially. I started a new life. She kept going with her studies, and chose to stay with me. She keeps that dress in her wardrobe. “To remember the day I chose my real family,” she says. And sometimes I wonder: Who really walked away from whom that day?