My mother-in-law once made the decision to move into my flat and give her own to my daughter.
My husband, Henry, was brought up in a large, boisterous household. His mother, Mrs. Wilkinson, continued having children until finally she had her precious youngest, her daughter. An odd approach to parenting, but that was her affair, not mine. Such were the mysteries of family life.
When I first married Henry, I counted myself lucky. He seemed responsible, brave, steadfast. He understood the meaning of family, yet could never separate himself from his mother and his much younger sister. His mother never truly lavished attention on her sons, but she always put her daughters comfort above all else.
Claire, the youngest, was just ten years old when I first came into their lives. At first, I hardly minded her presence, but as the years passedsome five years or sothings began to irk me. Claire showed little interest in her studies, mixed with the wrong sort, and every mishap required my husband to drop everything for her. My sister-in-law could ring him at midnight, and he would dash out to help her.
I held onto hope that Claire would mature, marry, and everything would sort itself out. But nowhen she announced her engagement, Mrs. Wilkinson insisted her sons chip in for the wedding, for she claimed she hadnt a penny to spare. The groom was a pauper and earned precious little, so the newlyweds reluctantly moved in with Mrs. Wilkinson.
One child arrived, then another, and life became impossible for all of them under one roof. Thats when Mrs. Wilkinson hit upon her ideal planshe would move in with us, and gift her flat to her darling daughter. The trouble is, I had bought the flat with my own savings; Henry hadnt put in a single shilling. Strangely, he seemed perfectly satisfied with the arrangement, assuring me, Mother will help you.
We lived in a modest two-bedroom flat. I simply could not bring myself to sacrifice my own comfort and share my home with another. Mrs. Wilkinson was convinced that it was our duty to take her in, as Henry, being the eldest, bore the responsibility of looking after his parents in their time of need.
I love my husband, and divorce never seemed a real option. Yet how could I make him see sense? How to tell him that living with his mother felt like torment? If only someone could offer me some sound advice, for surely others must have faced such a problem in their day.
