You can simply move in with uswhy bother with a mortgage? declared my mother-in-law one Sunday, teacup in hand. Youll get our house in the end, anyway!
My mother-in-law has launched a full-scale campaign to talk us out of a mortgage. Shes adamant that we move in with them, since my husbands their only child and therefore the heir apparent of their modest semi in Surrey. Trouble is, shes only forty-five, and my father-in-laws a sprightly forty-seven. Theyve probably got decades before the Grim Reaper so much as glances in their direction.
My husband and I are both twenty-five, freshly graduated and properly employed. We make enough to rent a respectable flat, but honestly, I dread daily run-ins with his family over the colour of the loo roll or who took the bins out last. His parents are conspiring to turn living together into a sitcom, while my own folks, who have a generous three-bedroom place in Kent, keep nudging us to move in too. But honestly, I never fancy tiptoeing round someone elses patch as the perpetual houseguest. Sharing a roof with either set of parents is about as appealing as volunteering for a root canal.
The plot thickened when, during lockdown, our landlady gave us noticeher niece and brood needed somewhere to crash. Forced to act on short notice, we found ourselves hauling our boxes across Surrey and knocking on the in-laws door. My mother-in-law and father-in-law welcomed us with open arms, bless them. Mum didnt subject me to waterboarding, but she had a megaphone for her disapproval: Youre not doing that right! seemed to be her rallying cry. My mother-in-law was less militant but equally in charge.
Wed been toying with the idea of a mortgage, but now seemed the perfect moment. Since we werent paying London prices for rent, we could sock away a few quid without sacrificing our daily soy flat whites. Of course, I wanted to get out as quickly as possible, but even renting again would mean kissing goodbye to savings for years.
Though his folks never poked their noses into our business, their household ran on rules and rituals that felt more Hogwarts than home. We tiptoed round their customs like contestants on Strictly, forever adapting because, after all, wed invaded their castle. No major drama, but I felt permanently out of place.
From day one, my mother-in-law demoted me from chef to spectatorand not in a subtle way. This is my kitchen. Its my queendom, sweetheart, shed whisper while wielding a wooden spoon. Trouble was, her idea of seasoning was add the whole spice rack and two bags of onions. I, meanwhile, am onion-averse.
Call me fussy, but I consider this a serious dilemma. When I tried to cook for myself, she went full Shakespearean: wounded, dramatic, convinced I was criticising her domestic prowess.
Every Friday, without fail, she launches a spring-clean offensive straight out of Downton Abbey. By the time we stagger home from work like zombies, shes miffed that were not leaping up to polish the banisters. I once asked, Why not Saturday? To which she replied, Weekends are for rest, darling, not dusting! The logic escapes me.
These little quirks summed up our stay, warming my slightly frazzled soul. At least she didnt mock me; she just marched to the beat of her own ancient druma drum I hoped was only in my life temporarily.
My husband and I decided we wouldnt spill the beans about saving for our own place. We paid half the council tax and utilities and chipped in for the groceriesa proper grown-up arrangement with saving on the sly. One day, chat turned to carshis cousin had just bought a new one. Thats when my father-in-law piped up, You two should be thinking about a car yourselves. My husband replied, Actually, were focused on getting a place of our own.
How long will that take, then? Dad asked. My husband explained that were not saving for the whole house, just enough for the deposit. Thats when my mother-in-law repeated her favourite line: Move in with us! Who needs a mortgage? Youll get the house eventually.
We tried to explain we wanted our own nest. His parents thought this bone-headeda mortgage means giving bankers more money, after all. When my mother-in-law realised logic couldnt crack us, she switched tactics: Think about children, not mortgages!
Thus began her daily broadcasts about the joys of cohabitation. Her arguments bounced off me like raindrops on waxed jackets, but they started to stick to my husband. He started quoting her: Mums got a point. No mortgage, no fuss, no fights. Someday, the house will be ours!
I couldnt help but protest, Someday meaning fifty years down the line, Barney! But after that talk, he increasingly pointed out how his aging parents might need care soon, and that a mortgage was tantamount to indentured servitudeimpossible once I go on maternity leave.
But honestly, Id rather be my own lady of the manor nownot wait for the day my mother-in-law passes. Can you blame a girl for wanting a home thats hers, not a future inheritance with a 50-year warranty?
