“It Doesn’t Look Good That Your Children Will Have Homes While My Son Won’t—Let’s Buy Him a Flat With a Mortgage!” Recently, my husband Anthony pointed out that my children have homes, but his son doesn’t—so we need to figure out how to get his son a flat, too. For context: my children are our children together, while Anthony’s son is from his first marriage. Why should it be my responsibility to worry about getting a home for his son? Of course, I’ve always known Anthony was previously married and had a child, which is partly why I wasn’t in any rush to marry him. We lived together for three years before tying the knot. I watched carefully how he felt about his ex-wife and his child. A year after marrying, we had our own son. Two years later, our second son. I’m happy with Anthony as a husband and as a father—he’s devoted time to me and our children and is a good earner. Naturally, we have the odd spat, but what family doesn’t? We lived in the flat I inherited from my father after my mother divorced him when I was little. Mum remarried but had no more children. Anthony and his ex-wife always rented, saving for a mortgage that never materialised. After their divorce, Anthony continued renting on his own, while his ex-wife moved back with her parents. When we married, Anthony moved in with me. We never focused on whose name was on the flat—we just did home improvements and shared everything. But about a year and a half ago, both my grandmothers passed away and left me their flats as well. While my boys are still young, I decided to rent those flats out. Later, each son will get a flat. Rental from one goes to help mum’s pension, the other supplements my salary. Anthony never interfered with my flats—they’re nothing to do with him. From the start, I told him clearly: one day, each of our sons gets a flat. He agreed, and that was that. Suddenly, Anthony comes out with: “My son finishes secondary school soon. He needs to start thinking about his future!” At first I didn’t know where he was going with this, but I listened. “Your kids have homes! My son doesn’t! Let’s buy my boy a flat with a mortgage!” Anthony blurted out. I was stunned! So many questions. Firstly—since when are our children only mine? Anthony asked me not to nitpick his words. “But my son will never inherit anything. I want him to have his own home!” “It’s great you care! But he has two parents—shouldn’t both be responsible for that? Why isn’t your ex-wife handling this?” Anthony tried explaining—his ex earns little and relies on her parents, and he simply can’t afford a mortgage alone. But if I help, we can manage it. He wants us to agree to a mortgage for his son, with the flat in his son’s name, and us footing the bill. “We both have good salaries, plus rental income—it’ll work!” Anthony insisted. We could just about manage, but we’d have to tighten our belts—a lot. Anthony pays child support, and when his son goes to university, he’ll help even more, since his ex can’t support him. So because of his son, our family will miss out: no nice holidays, no trips to the seaside—we’ll be scrimping on everything. All so Anthony looks like a great dad? I could understand if Anthony was the one who had provided flats for our kids and now wanted to do the same for his eldest. But that’s not the case—I provided those homes. Anthony has nothing to do with them. Why should I pay for his son’s mortgage? I told Anthony straight—if he’s so worried, let his ex take out the mortgage, and she can pay it with child support. “But I won’t be getting involved!” I said. Now Anthony’s furious with me and hasn’t spoken to me in a week. It’s such a shame he can’t see my point.

It doesn’t seem quite right, does it, that your children will each have a flat, and my son wont? Lets sort him out with a mortgage, shall we!

Recently, my husband Edward came out with the idea that since my children have their own places to live, its only right to think about how to get one for his child as well. For the record, my children are both mine and Edwards, but Edwards son, James, is his from his previous marriage.

I cant quite grasp why it all falls on me to worry myself about Jamess housing situation. When I married Edward, I knew hed been married before and had a childI certainly didnt rush into marrying him.

We lived together for three years before we tied the knot. I watched carefullywondering about the way he felt towards his former wife and his child. A year on, I gave birth to our first son, Thomas. Two years after that, our second, Oliver, arrived.

Truth be told, Ive been perfectly satisfied with Edwardas a husband and a father. He gives his time to us, cares for the children, and is a solid earner. Conflict crops up sometimes, of course, but doesnt it for everyone?

We were living in a flat I inherited from my father. My mum divorced him when I was still in nursery. Now shes remarried, although she had no more children with her new husband.

Edward and his first wife lived in rented places all along. They saved and hoped for a mortgage but never quite managed it. After the divorce, his ex went back to live with her parents, and Edward himself moved from one rented flat to another.

After we married, he moved in with me. The matter of property ownership never arosewe simply shared my flat, doing up the place and buying new bits for it together when we could. Then, about a year and a half ago, both my grandmothers slipped away, one after the other. One was my mums mum, the other my dads. By their will, both left their flats to me.

Since my two boys are small, I decided to let the flats out, one day giving each boy one of them. For now, I hand the rent from one over to my mum, which is a nice top-up to her pension, and the rent from the second flat adds a bit to my wages. Well, one can always use a little extra money.

Edward never fussed over my property mattersof course, theyre not his to fuss over. I explained to him at the start that when our lads grow up, one flat for each, and he understood that. End of story, or so I thought.

Then, out of the blue, Edward looked at me and said, James will be finishing his A-levels in a couple of years. Hes nearly grownhe needs to think about his future!

I wasnt sure where he was going with it, though I listened. Your children have flats! My boy doesnt! Why dont we buy a flat for James and take out a mortgage? he burst out suddenly.

I was utterly taken aback. A thousand questions ran through my head. Firstly, why are our children suddenly only mine? Edward begged me not to nitpick his words.

He went on, But my son wont inherit anything from anyone. I just want him to have his own flat.

Its good youre thinking about it, I said. But your son has both a mother and a fatherthey should take care of that, shouldnt they? Why doesnt your ex sort it out?

Edward protested that his ex doesnt earn much, relies on her parents, and cant possibly afford a mortgage on her own. He says he cant manage it either without my help, but that if Id agree, we could get a mortgage for James, the flat would be in Jamess name, and it would be the two of us footing the bill.

Weve got decent wages, and youve got rent coming in from your flats. We can do it! Edward said.

We couldif we started scrimping and saving everywhere. After all, Edward is still paying maintenance for James, and once James starts university, hell need more help; his mother is hardly flush with cash. What that means in practice is no family holidays, no trips down to Cornwall or the seaside, scrimping on everything so that Edward gets to look like father of the year.

If it were the case that Edward provided the property for our children as well as James, I could understand it. But it was me who got those flats for our boysEdwards got nothing in them. So why am I supposed to foot the bill for his sons mortgage?

I told Edward outright that if hes so worried, his ex-wife should sort out the mortgageshe can use the maintenance money he gives her. But it wont be me getting involved!

Edwards not spoken a word to me in a week and is in a real sulk. I only wish he could see my side of it.

But its as if the room dissolves around me, and I am adrift, the walls made of wallpaper patterned with tiny, spiralling pound coins, while Edward stomps down a hallway that twists in upon itself, arms laden with imaginary keys that unlock nothing at all. My words float away like wisps of steam from a forgotten cup of builders tea, unheededwhile the echo of old grievances swirls beneath the living room carpet, flickering in and out of the dim London light.