Sometimes I wonder how some people have the nerve to so insistently demand what isn’t theirs, all while hiding behind age and supposed concern. My mother-in-law is a prime example. Her name is Margaret Wilkins, she’s sixty-seven, and for the last two years, she’s been fixated on one goal—to push me and my husband out of our two-bedroom flat in Manchester and move in herself, generously “gifting” us her crumbling old cottage near the Peak District in return.
On the surface, she plays the role of a caring mother, an older woman worn down by life. But beneath that mask lies cold calculation. The house she’s trying to palm off on us ought to have been condemned years ago. Cracks run through the foundation, the roof leaks, the window frames are rotted, and inside, it’s freezing, musty, with warped floorboards and the persistent stench of damp. Margaret hasn’t lifted a finger to fix anything in years—unless you count pruning the rose bushes and trimming the hedge. That’s the extent of her upkeep.
Whenever she visits, she starts the same routine the moment she steps inside:
“Your place is so cosy! Everything’s neat and tidy. I’d love to live like this…”
And then, as if it’s just an innocent thought:
“Maybe you two should move out? I’d be happy to take this little flat off your hands…”
At first, I stayed quiet. Then I tried deflecting with humour. But now, I shiver with irritation just from the look in her eyes—that carefully veiled pity: “Oh, I’m just so old, so tired… it’s so hard living in that house…” As if a flat somehow cleans itself! As if the dust vanishes on its own and the walls repaint themselves! Margaret genuinely seems to think a flat is like a hotel with round-the-clock housekeeping. She either doesn’t grasp—or pretends not to—that my husband and I pour our time, money, and energy into this home. That none of it “fell from the sky,” but came from hard work and sacrifice.
We’ve offered her a perfectly reasonable solution:
“Sell the cottage, add a bit of savings, and buy yourself a one-bed flat. You’ll have heating, no garden to fuss with, all the conveniences.”
But no! She insists her derelict house is worth a fortune—at least three hundred thousand pounds! In reality, I’d be surprised if it fetched half that. And even then, it wouldn’t be enough for a decent flat in the city. We’ve told her as much. It goes in one ear and out the other.
“Who would even want that place?” I’ve tried explaining.
“It’s got character! Your Thomas was born there! It just needs a bit of polishing,” she insists.
Polishing? When the walls are practically crumbling?
And so it goes, over and over. Every visit, the same script:
“Your flat is so lovely! Maybe you’ll reconsider?”
Recently, my husband finally snapped:
“Mum, we’re not giving you our flat. And we’re not moving into that house. Don’t get your hopes up.”
She sulked, left, and hasn’t called in a week—her way of punishing us. How dare her son and daughter-in-law refuse to “make her happy” by handing over the home they’ve poured their hearts into?
I’m exhausted. I don’t understand how someone can be so wilfully oblivious to boundaries. We’re a young couple with jobs, plans, maybe even kids soon. Where are we supposed to raise them? In a drafty old house with cracks in the ceiling? Or should we pour more money into a lost cause?
What irritates me most isn’t even her proposition—it’s the way she frames it. As if we’re the selfish ones. As if our flat is her salvation, and we’re heartless monsters denying her paradise. All we want is to keep what we’ve built.
For now, we’ve decided to avoid the topic altogether. She knows our answer. It’s final. If she’s truly struggling in that house, she can sell it and find a flat within her means. But she won’t live under our roof. Because our home isn’t some prize for being older, nor payment for motherhood. It’s ours. And we won’t give it up.
