“Why take out a mortgage? You can live with us—we’ll give you our house!” said my mother-in-law, urging us not to buy our own home. My husband is their only heir, but his parents are in their mid-forties, while my husband and I are just twenty-five, both working and currently renting. I worry that living with his family will strain our relationships and that I’ll never feel like the true lady of the house, always adapting to my in-laws’ ways and enduring my mother-in-law’s kitchen rules and Friday cleaning rituals. Though she means well and assures us we’ll inherit the house someday, I long for independence now, not decades later.

Author Mitsuko NagasakiReading 5 minViews 2

You can live with us, why bother with a mortgage? Youll get our house one day! declared my mother-in-law firmly, her voice echoing down the hallway.

Helen was always trying to dissuade us from taking out a mortgage. She insisted we move in with her and my father-in-law, Stephen, arguing that since my husband, Andrew, is their only child, the house would eventually be ours anyway. But Helen is only forty-five, and Stephen forty-sevenhardly ready to surrender anything.

Andrew and I are both twenty-five, trying to carve out our own future. We both work, and our salaries are just enough to rent a modest flat in Manchester. Im reluctant to jeopardise our relationship with his side of the family over the strain of living together and the daily pitfalls that come with it.

His parents are adamant about us living under their roof. My own parents have a three-bedroom flat outside of London, plenty of space for everyone, but I dont want to encroach on anyones territory and feel like a perpetual guest. Nor do I truly feel comfortable in the home of my in-laws.

When lockdown started, our landladyMrs. Brightasked us to leave so she could move her niece and family into our place. We couldnt find a suitable flat quickly, and ended up at Helen and Stephens house. They welcomed us with open arms, and Helen didnt torment me with criticism, but she was constantly correcting how I did things. Helen was different though.

We had already talked about getting a mortgage, but that was the moment it hit usit was time. We decided to save every penny while we could, though I yearned to move out as soon as possible. Renting would mean scrimping for an eternity, so we stayed on for a while.

Stephen and Helen kept out of our personal matters, but had their own traditions and peculiar routines so unlike ours. Andrew and I had to constantly adjust to their ways because wed come into their kingdom. It may seem trivial, but the constant feeling of being out of place gnawed at me.

From day one, Helen made it clear the kitchen was her domain. She gently informed me, The kitchen is my realm. No one else cooks here. But I struggle with the food she preparesshe loves hefty doses of herbs and is far too generous with onions.

It sounds minor, but it isnt. The day I decided to cook for myself, Helen took offence, believing I was undermining her as a hostess.

And every Friday, Helen launched into a full spring-clean after work. When Andrew and I crawled through the door, shattered from the week, all we wanted was to collapse into bed, but Helen was visibly disgruntled, huffing that she was doing everything alone. I once asked why she didnt just clean on the weekend. She replied almost matter-of-factly, You should rest at weekends.

And there were a hundred little things more. All this time, I found solace that Helen never belittled meit was simply her way of living, and it was only temporary in my life.

Andrew and I agreed not to tell his parents that we were saving for a place of our own. We paid half the bills, chipped in for shopping, and saved the rest. One evening, we were chatting about the new car Andrews cousin Tom had bought. Stephen piped up, suggesting we think about a car too, but Andrew blurted that we were more interested in buying a house.

How many years will you have to save? Stephen asked. Andrew explained that we werent saving to buy outright, but to put down a deposit for a mortgage.

You could live here! Why take on a mortgage? This house will be yours eventually! Helen insisted.

We tried to explain our desire for independence, but they dismissed it as nonsense. Youd be daft to pay all that to the bank! his parents exclaimed. When Helen saw she couldnt sway us, she changed tack, urging us to focus on having children, not on getting a mortgage.

Every day became a fresh barrage of arguments for living together. Her words did little to change my mind, but Andrew was beginning to cave, slowly absorbing her perspective until one night he looked at me and said, We dont need a mortgage. Mum is right. Were living peacefully, no rows. And when the time is right, the house will be ours.

In fifty years! I snapped, frustration boiling over.

After that, Andrew talked increasingly about how his parents were getting old and might need care, and how a mortgage was a shacklewhat if I went on maternity leave and things got difficult?

But I want to be the lady of my own house now. I dont want to wait for Helen to pass away before I can truly call someplace home.

Dad’s Better Than Anyone – A British Family Drama of Divorce, Rivalry and a Teenager’s Hard Lesson in Love “Max, we need to talk.” Olga nervously straightened the tablecloth, smoothing out imaginary creases, trying to hide her anxiety behind a calm voice. Max, hunched over his phone opposite, tapped the screen with dramatic focus – his favourite method of ignoring. “Son… I need to explain something important to you.” No reaction, just the soft clicks of a mobile. Olga took a deep breath, gathering courage for words she’d delayed for a week. “When your dad and I split up… it was half a year before I introduced you to Richard. I didn’t rush. I wanted to be sure it was serious.” Max’s fingers froze above the screen. The teenager lifted his head, eyes flickering with outrage, so intense that Olga instinctively recoiled. “Serious? That bloke means nothing compared to Dad! He couldn’t even hold a candle. Dad’s better than him at everything!” Memories of that first meeting struck Max with painful clarity—a tall stranger in their hall, mum’s anxious smile, the whiff of strange cologne. An intruder, unforgivably filling Dad’s place. “He isn’t a stranger,” Olga replied softly. “He’s my husband.” “Yours!” Max flung his phone onto the table. “Means nothing to me! My dad is Dad. This guy…” He didn’t finish, but contempt did his talking. Richard had tried, lord, how he tried. Evenings spent in the garage fixing Max’s bent bike, hands stained with engine grease, a determined smile against every setback. “Look, got the frame straightened,” he’d say, wiping his hands. “You can take it out tomorrow?” Silence met every gesture – icy, reverberating silence. Every evening Richard sat by Max’s desk, breaking down equations in plain words. “If you move X here—” “I get it,” Max would cut him off, even when it was clear he didn’t. Mornings brought the smell of freshly made pancakes and honey—Max’s favourite. Richard stacked them high on his plate. “Dad made them thinner,” Max would mutter, barely touching his food. “And Dad’s honey was proper. This is rubbish.” Every act of care crashed against a wall of cold indifference. Max seemed to collect ammunition for sarcastic comparisons. “Dad never shouted.” “Dad always knew what I liked.” “Dad did everything right.” Olga and Richard’s wedding shredded the fragile truce. Max took the marriage certificate as betrayal – final and irrevocable. The house became a minefield, mornings chilled by silence, nights ending in slammed doors. Max transformed into a secret agent, tracking every misstep by his stepdad like a detective. A sharp word over dinner – recorded. A sigh over homework – memorised. A tired “not now” after work – banked as grievance. “Dad, he had a go at me again,” Max would whisper in his bedroom. “Really?” Dad tutted, faking sympathy. “Poor lad. Remember those trips to the park? Every weekend, yeah?” “Yeah…” “That’s what a proper family was. Not this.” His dad painted a picture: perfect past, easy happiness, Dad flawless. Richard, meanwhile, felt like an unwelcome guest. Every look from Max screamed: you don’t belong. You’ll never be my family. The pressure built to breaking point. One evening, disaster struck. “You’ve no right to boss me about!” Max exploded when Richard asked for phones off at dinner. “You mean nothing to me!” Olga froze. Something inside her snapped. Max’s glare was venomous. “My dad is better in every way. He says you ruin everything. Life was better before you!” “Enough,” Olga said quietly. “That’s enough.” The next morning, she dialled her ex-husband’s number. Hands shaking, but her resolve steel. “Tom,” she began evenly, “if you think you’re the better parent, take Max. Permanently. I’ll pay maintenance if need be.” The silence dragged. “Well… the timing’s awkward…” Tom fumbled. “Work’s busy, loads of travel… I’d love to, but…” He shuffled papers, coughed awkwardly. “And, well, Jane—my girlfriend—she’s not ready for a kid yet. We’ve just moved in, trying to settle…” Weak excuses. Tom, who’d encouraged Max to attack Olga’s new family. Who fed him bitter words, stoked every little grievance. Now—just a cramped flat, some DIY and a girlfriend who’d rather not. “I understand, Tom,” Olga said, voice flat. “Thanks for your honesty.” She ended the call. That evening, she called Max to the living room. He slumped into a chair, defiant, but something in Mum’s gaze made him wary. “I spoke to your dad today.” Max tensed. “And what did he say?” Olga sat across from him. “He won’t take you. Not now, not ever. He’s got a new life, a new woman, and there’s no room for you.” “That’s a lie! He loves me! He told me—” “It’s easy to say things,” Olga replied softly. “But when I offered, he remembered his ‘repair work’ and his little flat.” Max’s mouth opened but he couldn’t contradict. “Now listen,” Olga leaned in. “No more comparisons with Dad. No more spying, no disrespect to Richard. Either we’re a family—us three—or you go live with your dad, who doesn’t want the job. I’ll make him take you. Then you’ll see for yourself what he’s really like.” Max sat motionless, eyes wide. “Mum…” “I’m not joking.” Olga didn’t flinch. “I love you more than anything. But I won’t let you destroy my marriage. Your behaviour is unacceptable. I’ve had enough. It’s your choice.” Max froze, his world in pieces. Kindly Dad vs ‘bad’ stepdad wasn’t so simple anymore. Dad wouldn’t take him back. He’d chosen his girlfriend and decorating. Had he used Max only to spite Mum? Painful understanding dawned. All those calls, all the questions—just ammunition. Tom gathering fuel for his own vendetta, Max unwittingly supplying it. He swallowed hard. And Richard? The man he’d mistreated for months? Patiently fixing his bike as Max ignored him. Baking pancakes every morning. Staying, trying, never quitting… Change wasn’t easy. Weeks passed with Max hiding in his room, ashamed to admit he’d acted like a child. Seeing Richard reminded him of: “You mean nothing to me.” He wanted to disappear. Everyone tread softly, speaking in cautious phrases. The house felt like an intensive care ward, teetering between hope and collapse. First step: a physics problem. Max struggled for two hours, chewed his pencil, finally found the nerve. “Richard…” The word was hard, stuck in his throat. “Can you help? It’s the vectors.” Richard glanced up from his laptop. No surprise or victory, just quiet acceptance. “Let’s have a look.” A month later, they went fishing together. Sitting by the lake, watching the bobbers, Max chatted about school, mates, a girl he fancied. No accusations, no comparisons – just a real conversation. Richard listened, nodded, occasionally added his thoughts. Max realised: this was real family. Not dreamy words or rose-tinted memories, but quiet breakfasts, patience, and sticking around when everyone else gave up. This time, Max chose right…