My mother-in-law suggested swapping flats—but with one condition: I had to sign mine over to her.
I don’t know how other women would feel, but I know this much: I won’t gamble with what’s rightfully mine. Especially when it comes to property. Especially when my husband’s family is involved—the kind where every “good intention” hides something shady.
Mark’s family is, putting it mildly, complicated. His younger brother has been in prison for years. Guess why. He always fancied risky schemes—dragging people into dodgy business, taking “responsibility,” then pinning the blame elsewhere. In the end, he paid the price. And his mum, my mother-in-law, would just sigh and say, “Boys will be boys.”
When Mark and I married, we had no choice but to move into my place—a one-bedroom flat left to me by my gran. Small but cosy, bright, with high ceilings. Plenty of space for us. Mark’s tidy, a proper homebody. Even early on, he never left the bathroom floor wet or made me wash his socks.
Three years passed. Then our daughter, Lily, was born—a quiet, sweet little thing. I’d braced for sleepless nights and tantrums, but she was an angel. Easy from the start.
Mark turned out to be a good dad. Sure, I wish he earned more, but who doesn’t? We got by. His mother, though, became a doting grandmother—showering us with gifts, calling nonstop. At first, I thought she just wanted to be close to Lily. Then I realised—she had a plan.
A simple one. She offered us her two-bedroom flat, while she, the “poor old granny,” would move into our one-bedder. More space for the baby, she said, and her help right there.
On paper, perfect. But there was a catch. She insisted we make it official—I had to transfer my flat to her name, while the new place stayed solely in Mark’s.
At first, I missed the trick. Then it hit me—if we divorced, I’d have nothing. My flat? Hers. The new one? His. All legal.
Is this clever or just cold? She won’t budge. Pressuring, guilting, twisting every argument. “If you refuse,” she says, “you’re already planning to leave him. And if you’re planning, you never loved him.”
Mark listens, torn. He sees the risk—but it’s his mum. She wouldn’t steer him wrong, would she? We talked. I said, “Mark, you’re my husband, Lily’s father. I trust you. But not your mother. I can’t. This feels wrong.”
He says I’m overcomplicating it. That it’s just paperwork, nothing changes, we’re not splitting. But I’ve seen how it goes. Today, “we’re fine”—tomorrow, “we’re strangers.” And I’m left with nothing.
I offered a compromise—just swap, no deeds, no gifts. Let’s live as family without legal tricks. She refused. Flat out: “I don’t trust you. What if you divorce and take half my flat?”
There it is. She guards hers but demands mine.
Now, the pressure never stops. Mark’s fed up with arguments. She calls daily, all sugar-coated. And here I sit, in my little flat, watching Lily sleep—wondering, am I a bad mother for not handing everything over?
I don’t want a divorce. But I won’t give up my home, either. I’m not greedy. Just scared of ending up with nothing. Seen it happen too often.
What would you do?
