You know what it’s like—living in someone else’s flat year after year, never knowing when you’ll be told to pack up and leave? My husband, Oliver, and I have been renting for seven years now. Over that time, we’ve faced it all—landlords can change their minds in a heartbeat. One day, it’s their son’s university plans falling through; the next, it’s unbearable neighbours or rent hikes with no explanation. And all the while, we can’t even think of starting a family because how do you raise a child when you’re always one step away from being homeless?
We wouldn’t mind living with parents—mine or his—but their places are cramped, and they’ve got nothing spare to help. Oliver and I graduated years ago, married in our final year, dreaming we’d be young, lively parents in sync with our kids. Now? I’m not even sure I want that anymore. What if our child grows up feeling like a stranger to us, the way we already feel about this generation and their baffling ways?
We both work, saving every penny, living frugally—no cafes, no holidays—just to scrape together enough for a place of our own. But no matter how hard we try, it’s never enough. Then, as if that weren’t enough, Oliver’s dad took ill—serious heart trouble. He’s not even old, but his health’s failing. Oliver’s been helping cover his medical bills, which only tightens the squeeze on our budget. But what can you do? Family’s family.
Then, out of the blue, my mum, Margaret Hayes, told us she’d come into a bit of money—an inheritance from her aunt. She wanted to help us, top up our savings so we could finally buy a modest one-bed flat. We were over the moon! We even started scouting estate agents, then decided to hunt for places ourselves.
At first, there were tempting listings, but every time we tried to negotiate, we got brushed off. Then it got worse: a dingy flat with barely any natural light, a shoebox the seller insisted was a “cosy nest.” Still, we pushed on—burning time, energy, even sleep—just for the dream of our own place.
Then Oliver went to visit his parents. He came back quiet, distant. That evening, he sat me down and said his dad’s condition had worsened. He might need surgery. The odds aren’t great, but it’s a chance. And Oliver thinks we should use the money Mum offered—the money meant for our flat—to pay for his father’s treatment. “Life’s more important than bricks and mortar,” he said. “We’ll earn it back. But Dad… he might not have that time.”
He spoke with such raw emotion—heartbroken, pleading. I stayed silent. Then I tried to explain—that money wasn’t ours yet. Mum hadn’t handed it over. And besides, she wanted to help us, not his family. Yes, his father’s illness is terrible—but how can I just redirect her money to something she never intended?
After that, Oliver looked at me like I was a stranger. Called me selfish. Said if it were my dad, I wouldn’t hesitate. We still talk, but it’s colder now—like flatmates, not lovers. And I don’t even know if that flat’s worth having if we’re just going to live in it as strangers.
When Mum found out what Oliver wanted, she flat-out refused to hand over the money early. Said she’d transfer it only on the day we signed the contract—when it was clear the flat was actually ours.
I get it. It’s her money. She meant it for us, not his family. But it still hurts. Because I don’t want to lose my husband. I just wanted a home. A nest. For us. Instead, I’ve got distrust, resentment, and this awful chill between us.
Everyone’s picked sides. Oliver’s mates back him; mine back me. And all I want is peace—to love and be loved. But apparently, that’s harder than scraping together a deposit.
So tell me—who’s in the right here?
