Have you ever felt the sting of living in someone else’s flat for years, never knowing when the axe might fall? My husband, Oliver, and I have been renting for seven long years. Seven years of landlords turning the screws—sometimes their son’s university plans collapsed, other times the neighbours turned unbearable, or the rent shot up with no warning. All the while, we’ve put off having children because how could we raise a family when we might be packing our bags tomorrow?
We’d have moved in with family—mine or his—but their places are cramped, and they’ve nothing to spare. Oliver and I met at university, married young, dreaming we’d be lively, engaged parents by now. But youth slips away, doesn’t it? Some days I wonder if I even want that anymore. What if our child grows up feeling like a stranger to us, just as the younger generation seems alien with their baffling ideals?
We both work, scraping together every penny—no meals out, no holidays—just saving for a home of our own. But no matter how tight we pull our belts, the numbers never quite add up. Then Oliver’s father’s heart began to fail. He’s not old, not really, but his body’s betrayed him. Oliver’s been helping with the bills, straining our budget, but what choice is there? Family comes first.
Then came the miracle. My mum, Margaret, inherited money from her aunt and offered to top up our savings. Finally, a shot at buying even a tiny flat! We were over the moon—scouring listings, trudging through viewings, only to find hovels masquerading as homes. A windowless shoebox, a glorified cupboard branded a ‘cosy nest.’ Still, we pressed on, sacrificing sleep, patience, hope.
Then Oliver visited his parents. He came back quiet, brooding. That evening, he sat me down and said his father needed surgery. A slim chance, but a chance. He wanted to use Mum’s money for it. ‘Life matters more than bricks,’ he said. ‘We’ll earn more. Dad might not have time.’ His voice shook with conviction. I stayed silent. Later, I argued—it wasn’t our money. Mum meant it for us, not his family. Yes, his father’s ill, but how could I redirect her gift like that?
The look he gave me then—like I’d become a stranger. Called me selfish. Said if it were my dad, I wouldn’t hesitate. Now we speak in clipped tones, like flatmates, not lovers. Mum, when she heard, refused to hand over the money unless it went straight to a property.
I understand her. It’s her gift, her choice. But the weight in my chest won’t lift. I didn’t just want a house—I wanted a home. With him. Now I’ve got suspicion, resentment, icy silences.
Our friends are split—his side, mine. But I just wanted love, safety, a place to belong. Turns out, that’s harder than saving for a mortgage.
So tell me—who’s right?
