I am utterly stunned: my mother-in-law wants to move in with us and intends to give her flat to her daughter.
My name is Emily, and I am thirty-six years old. I have been married to Edward for nearly a decade, and together we are raising our daughter, Beatrice, who will soon turn six. We both work hard, doing our best to build a life without burdening anyone. Yet it seems my patience is wearing thin.
From the very beginning, our marriage lacked support. Not a single penny was given to help us start. At first, Edward and I squeezed into a rented flat, scraping together rent and working nearly every day without respite. Our sole aim was to save enough for a mortgage deposit and finally have a place of our own. A holiday? Not a chance. We didn’t even allow ourselves new jumpers—only the bare necessities, strictly by the book.
After three years of this relentless grind, we finally bought a two-bedroom flat in the city centre. Yes, it was mortgaged. Yes, the burden was heavy. But it was ours. We were proud. A few more years of payments remained, but we could breathe easier. We were happy—simply because we lived alone. No one dictated when to mop the floors, what to feed our child, or where to leave our socks. Our world belonged to us alone.
Then came the evening that changed everything. I returned home from work—tired but content, knowing my beloved husband and daughter awaited me. But sitting at the kitchen table with them was his mother, Margaret. She looked unusually animated, as if bearing good news. I was mistaken.
“Emily, I’ve made a decision,” she announced solemnly. “I’m moving in with you. And I’ll be giving my flat to Sophie.”
The room seemed to darken before my eyes.
Sophie is Edward’s younger sister. Two children, no stable marriages, endless debts, and perpetual drama. Margaret had always coddled her, handing her everything while Edward remained an afterthought. And now, it seemed, our life was to be sacrificed for her sake.
I struggled to keep my composure.
“Forgive me, Margaret, but we only have two bedrooms. The three of us barely fit as it is. Where would you even stay?”
“Don’t fret, dear!” she chirped. “I’ll only come by in the evenings—have a bite and sleep. I’ll be out all day. I’ll help with Beatrice, tidy up—it’ll ease your load. You can’t expect me to turn my daughter out on the street—she has nothing!”
And we, I suppose, have everything? We scraped together every shilling for a decade, lost sleep, all so our daughter could have peace and warmth, so we could rest in our own corner. I’m not one to yield easily, so I spoke plainly:
“I’m sorry, but I’m against it. I won’t have anyone imposing on our home. I am the mistress of this house. We built this comfort ourselves.”
Margaret’s tone shifted. Gone were the “dears” and “helpful offers”. Now came accusations—selfishness, thoughtlessness. How could I deny an old woman the chance to aid her daughter in need while I clung to my comforts?
Edward… He sat silent. Silent! As if this weren’t his mother threatening our peace, but a neighbour borrowing a cup of sugar. I looked at him and barely recognised him. Trapped between two women he loved—one his wife, with whom he’d built a life, the other his mother, for whom he’d always be a boy with a schoolbag.
Later, when we were alone, I tried to speak with him. But he only lowered his eyes and murmured, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to quarrel with either of you.” As if it were easy for me. As if I weren’t being told outright: you are the backup plan.
Still, I sense the choice is inevitable. Sooner or later, Edward must decide where he stands. I’m tired of living as though my voice doesn’t matter. I have a right to a home where I find peace—where I needn’t glance over my shoulder, worrying what my mother-in-law thinks, where my daughter won’t hear her grandmother deciding who in this family holds more worth.
I don’t know how this will end. But one thing is certain—I won’t surrender my home. I won’t let what Edward and I built over years be torn apart. Even if it means standing firm against his own mother.
