My Husband Refuses to Bring His Mother to Live with Us Because There Can Only Be One Lady of the House—and That’s Me

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 6 minViews 2

My son wont take his mother to live with him because there can only be one lady of the houseand thats me.

Thats not right at all! Shes his mother, after all! He ought to look after her in his own home! Such remarks echo from my husbands family, and I know my own friends feel the same, though none say it to my face. The reason, of course, is my mother-in-law.

Margaret is eighty-three, weighs well over fifteen stone, and comes down ill often. Why dont you and Tom move Margaret in with you? my cousin asked me a few years back. Youre awfully kind to help her each day, but what if she needs someone during the night? It must be hard on her alone. Toms all she has.

Everyone just assumes her only son and his wifemeaning Tom and Ishould look after Margaret, along with our son, her only grandson. Margaret hasnt left her flat for the past five years. Her legs trouble her, and her weight has made it nearly impossible to get about. It started thirty years ago. Back then, Margaret was lively, healthy, and rather opinionated.

Who have you brought to meet me? Margaret bristled when Tom first introduced me. Is this the woman youre choosing, after all Ive done for you?

I quietly walked off to the bus stop after that. Margaret lived in a posh village just outside Oxford, in a lovely big house at the time. Her husband held an important position, and Margaret led a comfortable life, even after he passed. That day, Tom traced my steps and came home with me. I was lucky, in truth: my husband didnt follow his mother blindly. He respected his elders but tried to explain that Margaret just had a difficult character, and not to take it to heart.

After our wedding, we scraped and saved for a place of our own. Tom worked away for stretches at a time. In a few years, we managed to buy a house and put it in order. Margaret saw little of us, but shed fill Toms earand everyone elsesabout me. My daughter-in-law wont let Tom help his own mother! Can you imagine? And so forth.

Margaret decided to move into London, but the money she got from selling her house wasnt enough. She asked us to chip in and promised shed leave the flat to our son, her grandson. But at the solicitors office, Margaret suddenly insisted it be in her own name, because a friend told her grandmothers sometimes end up with nowhere to live. Later, she announced shed leave the flat to whomever took care of her in old age. She wanted to be the one in control. Margaret claimed wed cheat her and leave her with nothing.

Nearly twenty years have passed since then. Everyone at the solicitors office heard her complaints that day. Tom and I felt mortified. We let the whole thing go. Margaret moved in right away and wouldnt let us do so much as paint a wall. She stayed less than a month before complaining the place was old, everything was falling apart, and of course, blaming me for finding her a terrible flat, accusing me of trying to trick her.

Margaret doted on her cousins children, but would ignore her own grandson. Shed even pretend she didnt remember his birthday. Some years back, Margaret took ill and put on even more weight, making it hard for her to get around the flat. Id bring her healthy meals, following the GPs advice. Margaret cursed and refused, insisting only her cousin fed her properly, while I supposedly starved her.

Last year, Tom started urging me to bring Margaret into our home. Shes changed, he said, and knows she has to do as the doctor says.

All right, I replied, but on my terms: the kitchen is my territoryI do all the cooking, I choose the meals, and her cousins are not to visit here.

Margaret was indignant and refused. She had hoped to come and rule over our household, but I made it clear theres only room for one lady of the house: me. So I kept visiting to tidy up, make her meals, occasionally even staying overnight to see to her needs. Meanwhile, her favourite cousin phoned from afar, offering sympathy but never practical help.

My mother-in-law would ring her cousin and complain I was starving herno cakes, no cured ham. Shed beg her cousin to visit and bring cake, but shed make excuses about being busy, despite living closer than I. Shed turn up once a month, arms full of unhealthy treats, while I was there daily, looking after Margaret.

One day, Margaret called her cousin, claiming her necklace and crucifix were missing. She said we both came to visit that day but was sure Id taken them. I said nothing, simply set her food down and picked up the chain and cross from where theyd slipped behind the bedside cabinet. When I got home, I told Tom everything and decided not to visit again. I suggested we look into a care home for Margaret. Tom agreed.

Looking back, its clear that kindness and goodwill often go unrecognised, especially when old grudges and pride cloud the heart. In life, a house can only have one true matron, but in family matters, respect and care cannot flourish without honesty and understanding from all sides.

One Little Certificate The key to Mum’s flat was tucked in Serge’s jacket pocket, right beside the slip confirming his advance payment. He kept fiddling with the crumpled paper through the fabric, as if he could somehow control the situation by touch. In three days, he’d meet buyers at the solicitor’s to sign the contract for selling the flat—they’d already transferred a hundred grand, and the estate agent kept texting nightly reminders about deadlines. Serge replied briefly, no smiley faces, reading her reminders as threats. He climbed to the fifth floor with no lift, paused at the door, caught his breath, and only then rang the bell. Mum didn’t open straight away; he heard her shuffling behind the door, then the lock clicked. “Serge, is that you? Wait—let me just…” she called out, voice louder than needed and carried a note of tension, like she was apologising in advance. Serge smiled as best he could and held out the carrier bag. “Brought groceries. And we’ll check the contract again.” “The contract…” Mum retreated down the corridor to let him in. “I remember. Just don’t rush me.” The flat was warm, radiators blazing, a tote of medicines sat on the stool by the entrance. On the kitchen table, a plate with half an apple, and Mum’s large-font notepad: “Take tablets,” “Ring maintenance,” “Serge coming.” Serge unpacked the groceries, put the milk in the fridge, checked the seal. Mum watched, as if every movement were part of the transaction. “You bought the wrong bread again,” she said, not cross. “Didn’t have the proper sort,” replied Serge. “Mum, do you remember why we’re selling?” She sat, her hands folded tight on her knees. “So it’s easier for me. No more climbing stairs. And so you…” she hesitated, like the word “you” weighed too much. “So you don’t argue.” Serge felt annoyance rising—not at her, but the phrase itself. They argued quietly, by phone, so Mum wouldn’t hear. “We don’t argue,” he lied. “We’re sorting things out.” Mum nodded, but her look was clear, stubborn. “I want to see the new flat before I sign anything. You promised.” “We’ll go tomorrow,” Serge said. “Ground floor, garden, shop round the corner.” He took out documents from his folder: draft contract, receipt, land registry printout, passport copies. Everything filed, as if order in paperwork could fix the mess in their family. “What’s this?” Mum reached for a sheet Serge barely remembered. Thin paper, surgery stamp, doctor’s signature. Top—“Certificate.” Below—phrases that turned his mouth dry: “signs of cognitive decline,” “recommend considering guardianship,” “capacity may be limited.” “Where’s this from?” he asked, keeping his voice even. Mum peered at it, puzzled. “They gave me it… at the surgery. I thought it was for a care home.” “Who gave you it? When?” She shrugged. “I was with… Pasha. He said my memory should be checked, so no one tricks me. I agreed. Some lady on the desk said sign here, so I did. Didn’t read it, left my glasses at home.” Serge felt the picture forming in his mind, and hated it. His younger brother, Paul, had been repeating himself for months: “Mum can’t be left on her own, she forgets everything, she’ll get conned.” He said it like he cared, but the words carried weariness. “Mum, do you understand what this means?” Serge lifted the certificate. “That I…” Mum lowered her eyes. “That I’m stupid?” “No. It means someone’s started the paperwork so you can’t sign for yourself. So someone else decides for you.” Mum jerked her head up. “I’m not a child.” Serge saw her lips tremble. No tears, just a glistening hurt she wouldn’t show. “I know where my money is,” she said quickly. “I remember taking you to school. I remember this flat’s mine. I don’t want…” She couldn’t say the rest. Serge slipped the certificate back into the folder, handling it like something hot. “I’ll sort it,” he said. “Today.” He went onto the balcony to ring his brother. Out there, Mum’s jars of pickled gherkins stood empty, sparkling, neatly boxed. Lids arranged separately, perfectly stacked. Mum might misplace her glasses but jars and lids were always in order. Paul picked up straight away. “How’s things?” His voice was cheery, as if trying to sound in control. “Did you take Mum to the surgery?” Serge asked. Pause. “Yeah. So? I told you, it was needed. She gets confused, Serge. You know it.” “I know she’s tired. That’s not the same. Did you realise she was given a certificate about guardianship?” “Don’t make a drama. Just a suggestion. Prevents trouble with solicitors. Nowadays everyone’s scared of fraud.” Serge gripped the phone. “Solicitors don’t ‘nitpick,’ they check capacity. If her medical record notes ‘may be limited,’ the sale could be blocked.” “And if it goes through, someone could challenge it. Want us dragged into court? I just wanted everything clean.” “Clean is when Mum knows what she’s signing. Not when someone hands her a form she can’t read.” “So now it’s all on me?” Paul snapped. “I visit more than you. I see her forget to turn off the hob.” Serge recalled Mum calling yesterday to ask the day, but then naming the advance sum exactly and double-checking their receipt for tricks. “I’m going to the surgery today,” Serge told him. “And the solicitor. And you need to come over tonight. We’ll talk with Mum present.” “She’ll get anxious, Serge.” “She deserves to be there. It’s about her.” Serge went back to the kitchen. Mum sat, hands tight, gazing out the window looking for solace. “Don’t be cross with me,” she said, not turning. “Paul’s good. He’s just scared.” Serge felt something shift inside; she defended her younger son even now. “I’m not angry at him,” Serge said. “I’m angry no one asked you.” He packed up the folder, tucked the certificate in a separate sleeve. While leaving, he checked the gas cooker, windows. Mum walked him to the door. “Serge,” she whispered. “Don’t let my flat go to just anyone.” “No one will,” he promised. “And I won’t let anyone take you, either.” Serge spent two hours at the surgery: queue at reception, hunt the right office, then explain his need for information. Receptionist looked worn out. “Medical privacy. Only with a letter of authority.” “She’s my mother,” Serge kept his patience. “She didn’t realise what she signed. I just need to know who started all this.” “She’ll need to come in herself.” Serge stepped into the hallway, called Mum. “Mum, can you come now?” “Now?” Unease in her voice. “I… I’m not ready.” “I’ll come get you,” Serge said. “It matters.” He returned, climbed the fifth floor, found Mum’s coat and her glasses on the windowsill—“so as not to forget.” Mum walked steadily down the stairs. At the surgery, the queue was longer. Mum watched people, notices about health checks, shrinking in her seat. “Feel like a schoolgirl,” she muttered when they reached the window. “You’re a grown-up,” Serge replied. “Just how things work here.” With Mum present, the receptionist softened. Took passport, NHS card, found her record. “You saw the neurologist a fortnight ago,” she said. “And psychiatrist by referral.” Mum flinched. “Psychiatrist?” she repeated. “No one told me.” “It’s standard with memory complaints,” the lady said, though her voice lacked confidence. Serge asked for a printout of visits and the certificate. He was refused, but Mum was allowed a record summary to show the solicitor. This time, in her glasses, Mum read every line before signing. “There,” said the receptionist, handing over the sheet. “See the practice manager if you’ve more questions.” The manager’s office was locked, note on the door: “Open from 2pm.” It was only 12:30. “We won’t manage,” Mum said, relief tinging her voice as if the delay was a rescue. “We will. We’ll wait,” Serge replied. They sat on a hallway bench. Mum clutched the record, like a ticket she feared losing. “Serge,” she said, not looking at him. “I really do get mixed up sometimes. Can forget if I’ve had lunch. But I don’t want to be written off.” Serge glanced at her hands. Skin thin, veins showing, fingers still dexterous. He remembered her tying his scarf as a child—how he hated feeling helpless then too. “No one will write you off unless you choose it,” he said gently. “What if I don’t realise what I’m choosing?” That question hurt more than the certificate. “Then I’ll stay with you,” Serge said. “And we’ll make sure you do know.” The manager saw them at 2:20pm: neat woman in her fifties, spoke calmly. “Your mother’s not subject to a court order for incapacity,” she said, flipping through the notes. “There’s a doctor’s note of possible cognitive decline, recommendation to seek advice about guardianship. That doesn’t stop her signing for a sale.” “But the solicitor will see it and refuse,” Serge said. “A solicitor assesses capacity at the time of signing,” she replied. “If they’re unsure, they’ll ask for a psychiatric assessment or insist on a doctor’s presence. The certificate itself isn’t a ban.” Mum sat, grip tight on her handbag. “Who asked for the note about guardianship?” Serge pressed. She looked closely at him. “In the record: ‘accompanied by son.’ No surname. Doctor might make notes after tests. No one ‘requests’ that kind of entry officially.” Serge realised pushing further wouldn’t help. It would always look like proper care. The grey area began where Mum signed without reading. Back on the bus home, Mum was tired, but steady. As they travelled, she said suddenly: “Paul worries I’ll sell the flat to someone and get left homeless.” “He’s frightened,” Serge said. “What are you frightened of?” Serge hesitated. He feared the sale collapsing, the buyers retrieving their deposit via court, losing the new flat option, Mum trapped in the same block for years. But more deeply, he was afraid Mum would stop being seen as a person by their family—become just a “care subject.” “I’m scared people will stop asking you,” he admitted. That evening Paul came round. Took his shoes off, strode to the kitchen like it was his own. Mum calmly set out plates and salad from the fridge. Serge watched her—a normal family dinner performance. “Mum, you alright?” Paul bent to kiss her cheek. “Fine,” she replied, curtly. “Today I found out I saw a psychiatrist.” Paul froze, shot Serge a look. “I didn’t mean to scare you, Mum. Just a doctor. Everyone’s checked now.” “No one checked me—I was escorted.” Serge laid the record summary out on the table. “Paul, this note could ruin the sale,” he said. “And without it, the sale could be dodgy,” Paul fired back. “The solicitor needs to know it’s all above board. No one should ever say, ‘Little old lady didn’t understand.’” “She does understand,” Serge said. “Today she does, tomorrow…” Paul’s voice sharpened. “You see it! She forgets. She could sign anything.” Mum smacked a palm to the table—not hard, but sharply. “I won’t sign ‘anything,’” she said. “Only what’s explained to me.” Paul dropped his eyes. “I’m really worn out,” he said quietly. “Every day I worry some caller will trick her, make her transfer cash. I watched it happen to a neighbour. Not to Mum.” Serge heard the fear, not greed, in his words—but fear didn’t give the right to choose for Mum. “Let’s do it differently then,” Serge said. “No guardianship. No ‘incapacity.’ We go to the solicitor before the buyers come; Mum wears glasses, takes her time. Solicitor speaks with her. If needed, we get a psychiatrist’s report saying she understands. Any power of attorney is limited, only for essentials—utility bills and banks. The sale money goes into an account needing two signatures: hers and mine. Or hers and yours. As Mum wants.” Paul looked up. “That takes ages. Buyers won’t wait.” “Then let them go,” Serge retorted, words spilling out—and he saw Mum flinch. “I won’t sell the flat at the price of calling Mum ‘incapable.’” Mum stared at him with a new look—a mix of relief and worry. “Serge—what if we lose the money?” He sat near her. “We’ll lose the deposit maybe,” he said honestly. “And time. But if we agree to guardianship for speed, we’ll never get free. You’ll be living under watch, every step ‘for your own good.’” Paul clenched his fists. “You think I want to humiliate her?” he said. “I think you want control because you’re scared,” Serge replied. “And because it’s easier.” Paul jumped up violently. “Easier? You try. You show up weekly, then preach how to care.” Serge stood too, but stopped. He saw Mum shrink, like their clashing was a blow. “Enough,” he said. “Not about who does more. It’s about keeping Mum at the centre. Mum, do you want Paul to be able to sign on your behalf?” A long pause. Then Mum said: “I want both of you with me when I sign. I want truth, even if it’s hard.” Serge nodded. “That’s what we’ll do.” Next day Serge went solo to the solicitor with the record note and certificate. The solicitor’s office was in the old town, wooden stairs polished by decades of feet. The solicitor, a bespectacled man, looked through the papers. “The certificate isn’t enough for refusal,” he said. “But better have the sale signed in the presence of a psychiatrist, or get a report. And absolutely, your mother must be present. No broad powers of attorney.” “The buyers are waiting.” “Buyers always are,” he replied. “Until they aren’t. Your call.” Serge left and rang the estate agent. “We’re delaying the sale,” he said. “For how long?” The agent’s voice chilled. “A fortnight. Need a doctor’s report.” “Buyers may drop out. Deposit must be returned.” “Then we’ll refund it,” Serge replied, surprised by his own calm. He told Mum and Paul that night. Paul ranted about “wrecked chance,” “you ruined it,” then left quietly, the coat stand in the corridor shuddering at his departure. Mum sat at the kitchen table, turning a pen in her hands. “He won’t come back?” she asked. “He will,” Serge said. “He just needs time.” “And me?” Mum asked. Serge realised she meant not waiting, but the time she had left in her life, and how many days she’d spend as a “dependent.” “You need time too,” he said. “And rights.” A week later, Serge and Mum saw a private psychiatrist, no waiting for referrals. Mum was anxious but steady; the doctor chatted, asked about dates, children, the sale’s reason. Mum got the day wrong, but clearly explained she was selling to buy a new place, for her own life. The report arrived: “Capable of understanding and managing her actions.” Serge felt the paper like both a shield and a sorrow—it hurt to see Mum’s right to be herself stamped by someone else. The buyers pulled out. The agent messaged: “They’ve found another place.” Then: “Return deposit by Friday, or there’ll be a claim.” Serge repaid them, dipping into his savings. It stung, but didn’t break him. Paul went silent for three days. Then appeared one evening without warning. Mum opened the door, and Serge overheard their voices. “Mum, I’m sorry,” Paul said. “I pushed too hard.” “You didn’t upset me,” Mum replied. “You frightened me.” Paul joined Serge in the kitchen. “I really thought it was right,” he said. “I didn’t want her…” “I know,” Serge said. “But from now on—all forms only with her and us there. And if you’re scared, just say so—don’t go through certificates.” Paul nodded, though stubbornness lingered in his eyes. “What if she really does start to…?” he didn’t finish. Mum calmly looked at him. “Then you’ll decide together,” she said. “But while I’m alive and understand, I want my say.” Serge saw the family wasn’t healed—resentment settled deep, not gone. The sale failed, deposit refunded, new flat lost. But the folder now held new papers: a tightly limited power of attorney for Serge to pay bills and speak to the bank, Mum’s signed consent for a joint account, and a list of solicitor questions she’d written herself in bold. Late that night, Serge got ready to leave. Mum walked him to the door, as always. “Serge,” she said, handing him a second set of keys. “Take these. Not because I can’t cope. But because it lets me sleep.” He took the keys, cold in his palm, and nodded. “It does,” he agreed. On the landing, Serge paused. He heard Mum’s steps, then the door’s lock click. He stood listening, knowing more truths remained hidden—who’d prompted the certificate at the surgery, why no one explained the forms to Mum, where care slipped into control. All that could still surface. But now, Mum had her own voice—anchored by their actions—and no one could take it away so easily ever again.

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