**Diary Entry**
I never knew what other women might feel in my shoes, but I do know this: I won’t gamble with what’s rightfully mine. Especially when it comes to property. *Especially* when my husband’s family is involved—people I’ve long suspected cloak their “good intentions” in something murky.
Mark’s family is… complicated, to put it mildly. His younger brother has spent years in prison. What for? You can guess. He was always drawn to reckless schemes—dragging others into shady ventures, taking “responsibility,” then scrambling for scapegoats. In the end, he paid the price. And his mum, my mother-in-law, would just sigh, *”Boys will be boys.”*
When Mark and I married, we had no choice but to live in my flat—a cosy one-bedder with high ceilings, left to me by my grandmother. It was enough for us. Mark’s tidy, domestic. Even early on, he never left the bathroom floor wet and washed his own socks.
Three years passed. Then our daughter arrived—quiet, fair-haired little Emily. I’d braced for sleepless nights and exhaustion, but she was an angel. Calm, sweet. Everything felt effortless.
Mark turned out to be a good father. Sure, I wish he earned more, but who doesn’t? We managed. But my mother-in-law? She *blossomed* as a grandmother. Gifts, daily calls, going out of her way—*especially* for me. At first, I thought she just wanted to be close to Emily. Then I realised: she had a plan.
It was simple. She offered to swap homes—we’d move into her two-bedroom flat, while she, the “frail old granny,” would take our one-bedder. More space for the baby, she said. Her help nearby. On paper, perfect. But there was a catch: she insisted we make it official. *I’d* have to sign my flat over to *her*, while the two-bedder would stay in *Mark’s* name alone.
At first, I missed the trap. Then I sat down, thought it through… and my blood ran cold. If we divorced, I’d have nothing: my flat—*hers*; the one we’d live in—*his*. All perfectly legal.
Is it cunning or foresight? Either way, she won’t budge. She pushes, manipulates, plays every card. Even claims my refusal means I’m *planning* to leave him. *”If you loved him, you wouldn’t doubt.”*
Mark listens. He’s torn. He sees the risk, but—*she’s his mother. She wouldn’t steer him wrong, would she?* We had a blunt talk. I told him, *”You’re my husband, Emily’s father. I trust* you. *But her? No. I can’t. This feels wrong.”*
He says I’m overcomplicating it. That it’s just paperwork. That nothing will change. But I’ve seen how it goes. Today it’s *”us”*—tomorrow, *”strangers.”* And I’d be left with nothing.
I offered a compromise: swap without deeds or transfers. *Act* like family, not lawyers. She refused outright. *”What if you split? Half my flat would go to you.”* There it is. She fears for *her* property but demands *mine*.
Now it’s daily pressure. Mark grumbles about the tension. She phones, guilt-trips, all wrapped in kindness. And here I sit, in my little flat, watching Emily sleep, wondering—*am I a bad mother for refusing to hand everything over?*
I don’t want a divorce. But I won’t sign away my safety net. I’m exhausted. Not greedy—just terrified of ending up homeless if it all falls apart. Too many stories like that.
What would *you* do?
