**Diary Entry**
Sometimes I wonder how some people have the nerve to demand what isn’t theirs so persistently, all while hiding behind concern and age. My mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, is a perfect example. At sixty-seven, she’s spent the last two years nurturing just one dream: to push me and my husband out of our two-bedroom flat in Manchester and squeeze herself in, all while graciously “gifting” us her crumbling cottage near Cheshire.
On the surface, she seems like a caring mother—an older woman worn down by life’s toil. But behind that mask lies shrewd calculation. The house she insists we take is, frankly, a tear-down waiting to happen. Cracks split the foundation, the roof leaks, window frames are rotten, and inside, it’s freezing, mouldy, with uneven floors and the damp stench of neglect. Margaret hasn’t lifted a finger to fix it in years—just tended her flower beds and trimmed the rose bush. That’s the extent of her upkeep.
Every visit, she starts the same way:
*”Oh, your place is so cosy! So tidy, so neat. I’d love to live like this…”*
Then, as if by accident:
*”Maybe you should think about moving? Let me take the flat…”*
At first, I stayed quiet. Then I brushed it off with jokes. Now, just the sight of her—those pitiful glances, the *”I’m just so tired, the house is too much…”*—makes my skin prickle. As if a flat magically cleans itself? As if repairs happen by wishful thinking? She treats our home like a hotel with round-the-clock service, ignoring the sweat, money, and hours we’ve poured into it.
We suggested the obvious:
*”Sell the cottage, top up the savings, buy a one-bed flat nearby. No garden, no upkeep—just warmth and comfort.”*
But no. She’s convinced her ruin is worth half a million—double its actual value. Enough to buy a decent flat? Not even close. We’ve told her outright. Deaf ears.
*”Who’d even want that place?”* I tried.
*”It’s got character!”* she insists. *”Your James grew up there! Just needs a little sprucing up!”*
Sprucing up? When the walls are literally crumbling?
And on it goes. Every visit, the same script. Recently, my husband snapped:
*”Mum, we’re not giving you the flat. And we’re not moving into that wreck. Stop asking.”*
She pouted, left in a huff, and hasn’t called in a week—playing the wounded martyr. How dare her son and daughter-in-law deny her “happiness”?
I’m exhausted. How can someone be so blind to boundaries? We’re a young couple—working, planning, maybe starting a family soon. Where would we raise kids? In a drafty, cracked shell? Or pour our savings into a lost cause?
What grates isn’t even her proposal—it’s her delivery. The guilt, the theatrics, painting *us* as selfish villains hoarding her “salvation.” All we ask is to keep what we’ve built.
Now, we’ve agreed to drop the subject. She knows our answer. If she’s truly struggling, she can sell and find a place within her means. But she won’t live under our roof. Our home isn’t a consolation prize for ageing or a debt owed for motherhood. It’s *ours*. And we’re keeping it.
