“It’s my car, and I decide who gets to use it!” snapped my mother-in-law.
My husband, Oliver, and I are a young couple, married for just three years. We live in a small town near Manchester, where every penny counts. We’ve taken out a mortgage on our flat and are scraping by to keep up with payments, cutting corners wherever we can. Life would be easier if not for one mistake Oliver made before we wed. He and his mother, Margaret, bought a car together, sinking most of his savings into it. The car was registered in her name, and she swore she’d let us use it whenever we needed. Those promises turned out to be empty, and we’ve been trapped ever since.
Every time we need the car, Margaret has an excuse ready. She’s either gone to her cottage, visiting friends, or claims it’s in the garage—conveniently “forgetting” to tell us. “There’s always the bus!” she snaps, even though we ask weeks in advance. If we somehow manage to borrow it, she calls nonstop: “When are you bringing it back? Where are you? Why are you taking so long?” Not because she needs it—she just sleeps better knowing it’s parked under her window. It’s not help; it’s torment, and every time feels like a knife twisting deeper.
Yet Margaret has no qualms about demanding money for the car’s upkeep. “You use it too, so pay your share!” she declares. Insurance, suspension repairs, new tyres—all on us. Oliver and I have poured more into that car than it’s worth, yet we’ve no claim to it. I’ve told him to stop paying and save for our own. If the car means so much to her, let her foot the bill! But Oliver hesitated, unwilling to upset his mother. Watching him torn between her whims and our life together only deepened my despair.
Recently, our finances stabilised enough to renovate our flat—nothing fancy, just fresh walls and flooring. To save on delivery, we planned to fetch the supplies in Margaret’s car, asking well ahead. When we arrived for the keys, the driveway was empty. She’d gone to visit a friend in Liverpool without a word. Oliver finally snapped. He rang her, shouting, “You’ve let us down again! How much longer?” She exploded: “It’s my car, and I decide who uses it! You’ve no right to dictate to me! Paying your share is the least you can do!” Her words stung, but something in Oliver shifted. Coldly, he replied, “Not another penny.”
When winter tyres were due, Margaret called right on cue, demanding cash. Oliver threw her words back: “Your car, your responsibility.” She shrieked about ingratitude, but he hung up. For once, he stood his ground, and I felt a flicker of hope. We could finally save for our own car, not waste money on hers. But the relief is bittersweet—Oliver’s rift with his mother cuts deep. I loathe conflict, but how much more selfishness must we endure?
My heart aches at the injustice. Oliver and I work ourselves ragged to pay the mortgage, building our future, while Margaret sees us as her personal ATM. Her promises were lies; her care, a sham. I’m sick of feeling indebted for what was never ours. Oliver took the first step toward freedom, but I fear this fight is just the beginning. Margaret doesn’t surrender, and her words—*my car*—still echo like a warning. But I swear this: we’ll break free, even if it burns. Our family deserves better, and I won’t let her steal our future.
