My In-Laws Have Decided to Move in With Us for Their Golden Years, Without Consulting Me First

My parentsinlaw decided, without asking me, that theyd move in with us when they got old.

David, can you hear me? Emma shouted, clutching the phone until her knuckles went white. Your mother just called theyre already selling the house! Selling it, David! And they plan to be here in a month! Her voice cracked into a whine she hated, but she couldnt stop it.

I was lounging on the sofa with a tablet, lazily blinking up at her.

Emma, why are you panicking? Its not tomorrow. A month is plenty of time. And theyre not moving into our onebed flat; theyre just coming to the town.

What just the town? Emma swarmed around the room, tripping over our son Ethans scattered toys. Martha said outright, Well stay with you at first while we look for a place. First? Do you have any idea how long that could be? A year? Two? We have forty square metres, David! Forty! Its me, Ethan, and two retirees with their quirks, ailments and endless suitcases!

I set the tablet aside and rubbed my nose. I looked like a martyr, the sort of person whod be torn from solving world problems to deal with some petty apocalypse.

Im not going to kick my parents out onto the street, I said. Theyre old. Life in the village is hard a big house, a garden, snow to clear. Dad hurt his back last year, Mums got high blood pressure. They need care, and were right here.

Care? Emma snapped. Your mum is sixtyfive, still working for the parish council and ploughing the garden like a tractor. Your dad is seventy, walks twenty miles to fish. What care? They just think theyre bored and want to be closer to the kids. And they didnt even ask us first!

Emma, stop the hysteria. Theyre my parents. I owe them help. Well figure something out. Maybe a temporary flat for them.

A flat? Were paying a mortgage, nursery fees, a car loan. After salaries were left with about three thousand pounds a month. What flat?

Theyll sell the house, the money will appear

The house is in a remote hamlet three hundred miles from civilization. How much will they get? A million pounds? In this city that money would only buy a garage or a shed on the outskirts. Do you realise they intend to stay with us forever?

Emma slumped into a chair, watching the disaster unfold in slow motion. Martha was a commanding, loud woman who loved to give orders. Nigel was quiet but stubborn, always smoking his Prime cigarettes and blasting the telly at full volume because my ears are getting deaf. Their tiny, battlescarred flat left Emma only one sanctuary the bathroom, which doubled as a loo.

I wont let them live with us, Emma said softly but firmly. They can visit, stay a week, but not live here.

I looked at her with reproach.

Youre cruel, Emma. Theyre family.

Its my family you, me and Ethan. Ill protect it.

A month passed a month of hell and waiting. Emma tried to reason with me, suggesting they sell the house, put the cash in the bank, scout for a place, rent a flat. I brushed it off: Mum said theres already a buyer, deposit paid.

Martha called every day.

Emma, love, Im sorting the pickles cucumbers, tomatoes, lecs. Well bring them over! Ethan loves Grandmas pickles, right? Ive also got my feather duvet to spread on the sofa, and that red rug you remember? Your laminate floor is cold, bad for the child. Well lay the rug itll be lovely!

I could hear the colour draining from Emma as she listened. Martha, we have underfloor heating. We dont need a rug, and we have nowhere to stash all those pickles.

Oh, well find space! On the balcony! A rug makes a home cosy. You young ones just dont get it.

The Dday arrived on a Saturday. I was a bundle of nerves from dawn, shuffling furniture, trying to free up even a sliver of room. We sent Ethan to his grandmas house so he wouldnt be under our feet.

At noon a white van rolled up. Nigel, cheerful with a walking stick, and Martha, barking orders at the movers like a general, tumbled out.

Careful! Thats the china! Dont break it! Dont tip the seed trays!

Emma stared out the window, counting boxes ten, twenty, thirty sacks, bundles, an old floor lamp, skis, and the rolledup red rug.

David, where will we put all this? she whispered.

Well sort it, I muttered, rushing to meet them.

The next two hours were a disaster. The hallway was jammed, boxes littered the kitchen, the living room, every corridor. Martha, refusing to take off her shoes, paced the flat, directing us.

This cupboard needs moving. Put my oak chest here. Its solid, not your cheap particle board. Nigel, bring the chest up!

What chest? Emma pleaded. We have no room!

Youll find it! Martha snapped. Dont throw it away.

By evening the flat resembled a storage unit. The only room Emma had lovingly divided into bedroom and nursery was now a maze. Marthas parents sofa (yes, they brought their own) was shoved into a corner, blocking the window. Nigels TV was perched on a sideboard, half covering our plasma screen.

So now we can actually live, Martha said, wiping sweat from her brow. Tight, but well manage. Emma, put the kettle on were famished.

Dinner was tense. Nigel slurped tea loudly, Martha criticised Emmas soup (too watery, I like it on the bone), and I sat, plate in hand, avoiding her eyes.

Alright, kids, Martha said, pushing an empty mug aside. Weve sold the house, the moneys in the account. We wont buy anything yet prices are skyhigh, agents are crooks. Well stay here, look around, maybe pick a cottage later. No objections?

Emma opened her mouth to protest, but I cut in.

Of course, Mum. Stay as long as you need.

She kicked my foot under the table, but I didnt flinch.

The next weeks turned into a nightmare of mornings at six. Nigel shuffled to the bathroom, then the kitchen, turned on the Classic Hits radio and smoked by the window despite Emmas hundred pleas to keep the flat smokefree.

Nigel, please smoke on the stairs! Emma begged, coughing.

Its cold out there, love, he waved off. Ill just smoke by the window.

At seven, Martha began clanging pots, declaring shed take over the cooking because Emma starves the man. She scoffed at my oat porridge, shouting, Oatmeal with water isnt a meal! David needs strength for work! The smell of frying bacon filled the flat, staining curtains and hair.

By evening, Emma would return from work to find Martha inspecting closets, folding sheets, and demanding I iron my laundry. Your sheets are crumpled, Emma. Ive reironed them, shed say.

Ethan, now five, was bombarded with sweets, bedtime cartoons until midnight, and an exemption from any discipline. Dont scold him! Martha would shout when Emma tried to tidy up Ethans scattered blocks. Hes little!

Two weeks in, Emma was on the brink. I tried staying late at the office so the parents would be asleep when I got home.

David, this cant go on, Emma whispered one Saturday morning as we shut ourselves in the bathroom, the only private space left. Theyre not even looking for a flat. Theyve already moved our flowers into their pots!

Hang on, Emma. Ill talk to them this weekend, I promised.

You promised a week ago! Either they move out, or Ill take Ethan and go to my mums. Choose.

I turned pale. Ultimatums werent my thing, but I knew Emma wasnt joking.

We sat down for Sunday lunch and I finally spoke.

Mum, Dad, Emma and I have been thinking maybe we should start looking at flats. Prices are rising, moneys losing value, and its cramped for all of us.

Martha froze midspoonful, Nigel turned the radio down.

Cramped? she echoed, voice trembling. Were bothering you? Were trying our best cooking, cleaning, looking after the grandson! Youre kicking us out?

No ones kicking you out, Mum. Just each family needs its own space. You wanted separate accommodation, remember?

We thought, why spend money? Were old, we dont need much. The money could help you. We could live together like in a council flat no complaints. Its a family!

No, Emma blurted. We cant live together. Different schedules, habits. I cant sleep with a TV blaring, I cant breathe cigarette smoke. I want my own kitchen.

Marthas hands flew up. So the daughterinlaw isnt good enough! We dont fit your way of life! David, you hear this? Your wife is driving your parents away!

Mom, Emmas right, I said quietly. We love you, but we need separate homes. Lets look at options tomorrow. Ive found an agent.

Martha slammed her spoon down, splashing soup onto the tablecloth.

Ungrateful! We sold the house, gave up everything to be near you! And you

Enough! I shouted. Were leaving for a hotel or the station if we have to!

Nigel looked baffled. To the station? At night?

Well find a place, Emma said, eyes steely. Well rent a twobed flat right next door. Youll visit, play with Ethan, but youll have your own home. No more arguments.

By evening we had a deal. Through a friend I secured a vacant twobed flat in the next block. The owners were fine with a shortterm rent.

The next day Martha packed with the air of a martyr headed to the gallows.

Were leaving you a paradise, she snarled at the door. Live happily. When youre old, dont be surprised if Ethan throws you out too.

The door shut. Emma slumped against the wall, then collapsed onto the floor. The flat was dead silent no TV, no bacon smell, no coughing.

Sorry, I said, sitting beside her. I was an idiot. I should have insisted from the start.

Its alright, she replied, smiling faintly. The important thing is we survived.

But the story didnt end there.

A week later Martha called, bright and businesslike.

David, weve found a new flat in the area, brand new build. A threebed terraced house.

A threebed? I asked. Why a threebed? The council rent is high, cleaning is a nightmare. Take the twobed, its more than enough.

No, we want the threebed. We have the money from the house sale and the land deal. Deposit paid.

Fine, suit yourselves, I said.

Emma exhaled, relieved. It seemed the problem was solved the parents would have their own place and visit only on holidays.

But renovations on the new house dragged on. They kept coming over to use the washing machine, wash up, or just sit and chat, claiming the water pressure in their rental was terrible.

Emma endured it, telling herself it was temporary.

Three months later the work finished. We brought a multicooker as a housewarming gift. The new home was spacious, bright, and Martha beamed with pride.

Come in, dears! Look at our new living room, bedroom

Whats this room? I asked, peering into the smallest third bedroom, wallpapered with little cars.

Martha smiled mysteriously. Thats for Ethan! Weve decided he doesnt need to go to nursery, hell stay with us five days a week. Well raise him, you can focus on your careers.

My god, Emma gasped. Ethan goes to nursery, has friends, prepares for school. He lives with us, not with you.

Why not? Martha protested. Well bake pies, tell stories. Youre always shouting at him. Weve already bought a bed, toys, moved half of his stuff while you were at work.

You stole his toys! Emma shouted, spotting Ethans beloved robot on the shelf.

They didnt steal, we took them! We have the spare keys David gave us!

I turned red as a beet.

Mum, give us the keys back, now.

I wont! This is my house too! Im a mother!

Give them back! I roared, so loudly that Nigel dropped the remote. Youve crossed every line! Youre invading our life, our home, and now you want the child!

Martha trembled, clutching a kitchen apron, and flung a bundle of keys onto the bedside table.

Take them! Take the grandson! Dont come back! We dont need children like you!

Emma grabbed Ethans hand, I snatched the multicooker, and we fled.

In the lift we rode in silence. Ethan whined, Mum, why did Grandma shout? I wanted to keep playing

Grandmas tired, love, Emma whispered, pulling him close. Were going home. To our home.

That night we changed the locks.

Six months later our relationship with Martha and Nigel settled into a polite cold war. We called on holidays, met occasionally in the park, but the grandparents only saw Ethan when we were there.

Martha spread the tale in the culdesac that her daughterinlaw was a villain who turned her son against his mother and kept him from the grandchild. Emma heard it but didnt mind.

The house was quiet again. Evenings we ate together, laughed, chatted about the day, and nobody tried to teach us how to fry fishcakes or raise a child.

One night I asked, Do you ever regret how harsh we were?

Emma looked at me, smiled, and shook her head. No. I only wish wed done it sooner. Family is us, and we have to protect our world from any invasion even one dressed as parental love.

I pulled her close.

Youre right. Dad called yesterday, said hes proud I stood up for us. Hes spent his whole life under his mothers thumb and now regrets it.

Sometimes you have to say no to earn respect, Emma said.

We never got the red rug back. It stayed with Martha in her new home, where it finally belonged. In our life there was simply no room for old rugs.