**Diary Entry**
“It’s my car, and I’ll decide who drives it!” snapped my mother-in-law.
My husband, Oliver, and I are a young couple, married just three years. We live in a small town outside Manchester, where every penny counts. We took out a mortgage on our flat, and now we’re struggling to keep up, cutting corners wherever we can. Life would be easier if not for one mistake Oliver made before our wedding. Together with his mother, Margaret, he bought a car, sinking most of his savings into it. The car was registered in her name, but she swore she’d let us use it whenever we needed. Those promises turned out empty, and we’ve been trapped ever since.
Every time we ask for the car, Margaret has a hundred excuses. She’s off to her cottage, visiting friends, or claims the car’s in the garage—conveniently “forgetting” to tell us. “There are buses, you know!” she snaps, even though we always ask weeks in advance. On the rare occasion we get the car, she calls nonstop: “When are you bringing it back? Where are you? Why so long?” Not because she needs it—just because she sleeps better knowing it’s parked under her window. It’s not help—it’s torture, and every time feels like a knife to the heart.
Yet Margaret never hesitates to demand money for upkeep. “You use it too, so pay your share!” she insists. Insurance, suspension repairs, new tyres—all on us. We’ve poured more into that car than it’s worth, yet we’ve no claim to it. I’ve told Oliver we should stop paying and save for our own car. If it means so much to her, let her handle the bills! But he wavered, afraid to upset her. Watching him torn between me and her demands only deepened my despair.
Recently, our finances stabilised enough to renovate the flat—nothing grand, just fresh walls and flooring. To save on delivery, we planned to fetch the materials in Margaret’s car, asking weeks ahead. When we arrived for the keys, the driveway was empty. She’d vanished to visit a friend in Birmingham. Oliver finally snapped. He called her, shouting, “You’ve let us down again! When will it stop?” She exploded: “It’s *my* car, and I’ll decide who drives it! You’ve no right to demand anything! And paying your share is the least you can do!” Her words stung, but something in Oliver shifted. He replied coldly, “Not another penny.”
When winter tyres were due, Margaret called right on cue, demanding cash. Oliver threw her words back: “Your car, your problem.” She screeched about ingratitude, but he hung up. For the first time, he stood his ground, and I felt a flicker of hope. We’ll finally save for our own car, free from hers. But the relief is bittersweet—Oliver’s rift with his mother aches. I loathe conflict, but how much longer could we endure her selfishness?
My heart burns with the unfairness. Oliver and I work ourselves ragged to pay the mortgage, building a life, while Margaret sees us as her personal bank. Her promises were lies, her care a pretence. I’m sick of feeling indebted for what was never ours. Oliver’s taken the first step toward freedom, but I fear this fight is just the beginning. She’s not one to back down, and her “it’s *my* car” still echoes like a threat. But I swear this: we’ll break free, even if it burns. Our family deserves better, and I won’t let her steal our future.
**Lesson:** Some chains are family, but that doesn’t mean you have to wear them forever.
