I’m absolutely stunned: my mother-in-law wants to move in with us and give her flat to her daughter.
My name is Natalie, I’m thirty-six, married to Andrew, and we’ve been together nearly ten years. Our daughter Veronica is almost six, and we both work hard to build our lives without burdening anyone. But my patience is about to snap.
From the start, our marriage had no financial support. Not a penny was given to help us begin. At first, Andrew and I squeezed into a tiny rented flat, scraping together rent while working almost every day. Our only goal was saving for a mortgage deposit—to finally have a place of our own. A holiday? Out of the question. We barely bought new clothes, sticking strictly to necessities.
After three years of this, we finally bought a two-bedroom flat in the city centre. Yes, it’s mortgaged. Yes, it’s a weight on our shoulders. But it’s ours. We were proud. A few more years of payments, but we could finally breathe. We were happy—just because we lived alone. No one dictated when to mop the floors, what to feed our child, or where to put socks. Our home was ours.
Then came the evening that changed everything. I came home from work—tired but content, knowing my husband and daughter were waiting. But sitting at the kitchen table was his mother, my mother-in-law, Margaret. She looked pleased, as if bringing good news. I was wrong.
“Natalie, I’ve made a decision,” she announced gravely. “I’m moving in with you. And I’ll give my flat to Emily.”
The room seemed to darken.
Emily—Andrew’s younger sister. Two kids, no stable relationships, endless debts and problems. Margaret had always spoiled her. Everything for Emily, always. Andrew never came first. Now, apparently, our lives were to be sacrificed for her too.
I tried to stay calm.
“Margaret, we only have two bedrooms. The three of us barely fit. Where would you even sleep?”
“Oh, don’t fuss, dear!” she chirped. “I’ll just pop in at night, eat, and sleep. Out all day! I’ll help with Veronica, tidy up—take some weight off you. I can’t leave my daughter homeless, can I? She’s got nothing!”
And we do? We rebuilt ourselves drop by drop, lost sleep for years so our daughter could have warmth and quiet, so we could relax in our own space. I’m not one to back down, so I said it plainly:
“I won’t allow it. This is my home, and I won’t have it unsettled. I decide who lives here.”
Her tone shifted. The “dear” and “help” vanished. Now I was selfish, uncaring—how dare I deny an old woman helping her struggling daughter?
Andrew? He sat silent. Silent! As if this weren’t his mother about to upend our peace, but a neighbour borrowing sugar. I barely recognised him. Torn between two women he loves—one his wife, the other the mother who still sees him as a schoolboy.
Later, I tried to talk to him. He just looked down and muttered, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to fight with you or Mum.” What about me? How am I supposed to feel when I’m clearly the afterthought?
But sooner or later, he’ll have to choose. I’m tired of living like my voice doesn’t matter. I deserve a home where I’m at peace—where my daughter won’t hear her grandmother deciding who matters most.
I don’t know how this ends. But I won’t surrender my home. I won’t let what we built be destroyed. Even if that means fighting his own mother.
