My In-Laws Have Decided to Move in with Us in Their Golden Years, and I Wasn’t Even Asked!

Emilys parents decide to move in with us in their old age without asking what I think.

David, are you even hearing me? Emily yells into the phone, her fingers whiteknuckled around the handset. Your mother just called. Theyre selling the cottage! Selling the cottage, David! They plan to be here in a month! Her voice cracks, a shrill edge she cant control.

David, lounging on the sofa with a tablet, looks up lazily.

Emily, why are you panicking? Its not tomorrow. A month is plenty of time. And theyre not moving into our onebed flat, just into the town, he says.

Which just the town? Emily darts around the room, tripping over Olivers toys. Margaret Clarke said outright, Well crash at yours while we look for a place. Crash! Do you know how long that could last? A year? Two? We have forty square metres, David! Forty! Its me, Oliver, and two pensioners with their quirks, ailments and chests of junk!

David puts the tablet down, rubs his nose. He looks like someone distracted from solving world crises by a trivial apocalypse.

Im not going to kick my parents out onto the street. Theyre old, its hard for them out in the countryside. The house is big, theres a garden, they have to clear snow. Dads back went out last year, Mums got high blood pressure. They need care, and were right here to help.

Care? Emily, your mum is sixtyfive, still works for the parish council and drives the tractor in the garden. Dad is seventy, walks twenty kilometres to his fishing spot. What care? They just got bored and decided they want closer to the kids, but they never asked the kids first!

Emily, stop the hysteria. Theyre my parents. I have to help them. Well figure something out. Maybe rent them a flat at first.

A flat? Were paying a mortgage, school fees, a car loan. After each payday we have about three thousand pounds left. What flat?

Theyll sell the cottage, money will appear

The cottage is in a remote Yorkshire village three hundred miles from civilization. How much will they get? A million pounds? In our town that would only buy a garage or a shed on the outskirts. Do you realise theyre moving in for good?

Emily collapses into a chair, watching the disaster unfold in slow motion. Margaret Clarke a forceful, noisy woman who loves to give orders and John Smith quiet but stubborn, chainsmoking Strong cigarettes and blasting old rock on the telly because hes hard of hearing both live in a tiny, cramped flat where Emilys only sanctuary is the bathroom, which doubles as a laundry.

I wont let them live with us, she says quietly but firmly. Visitors, fine. A week, maybe. But living here, no.

David looks at her with reproach.

Youre cruel, Emily. Theyre family.

Theyre my family. Its me, you and Oliver. Ill protect it.

A month of hell passes. Emily tries to reason with David, suggesting they ask the parents to sell the cottage, put the cash in a bank, scout for a place, rent a flat. David waves it off: Mum said theres already a buyer, weve given a deposit.

Margaret calls every day.

Emily dear, Im sorting the pickles cucumbers, tomatoes, leeks. Well bring them all! Oliver loves grandmas pickles, right? Ive even got my downy duvet for your sofa, and that red rug you mentioned. Your floors cold, a rug would warm it up nicely!

Emily feels her hair go grey at the thought of a rug in their Scandinavianminimalist flat.

No rug, thank you. We have underfloor heating. And we dont have space for all those pickles.

Fine, well find a spot! Put them on the balcony! A rug adds cosiness. You young people just dont get it.

The Dday arrives on a Saturday. David is a bundle of nerves from dawn, shuffling furniture, trying to free up any inch of space. Oliver is sent to Emilys mothers house so he doesnt get in the way.

At noon a white van rumbles up the drive. John steps out, a walking stick in hand but surprisingly spry, and Margaret, commanding the movers like a general, shouts, Careful with the china! Dont tip the seedling tray!

Emily watches the window, counting boxes: ten, twenty, thirty bags, bundles, an old floor lamp, skis, and, of course, the rolledup red rug.

David, where do we put all this? she whispers.

Well sort it out, he grumbles, hurrying to meet the newcomers.

The next two hours feel like a natural disaster. The hallway is choked with boxes, the kitchen, the living room, every corridor. Margaret, never removing her shoes, prowls the flat directing everything.

This wardrobe needs moving. Put my oak chest here. Its solid wood, not your particle board, she orders. John, bring the chest in!

What chest? Emily, we have no room! she pleads.

Youll find it! Dont throw it away.

By evening the flat looks more like a storage unit than a home. The only room Emily had lovingly split into bedroom and playroom is now a chaos zone. The parents sofa yes, they brought their own couch is shoved into a corner, blocking the window. Johns TV is perched on a sideboard, covering half of Emily and Davids plasma screen.

Now we can actually live, Margaret declares, wiping sweat from her brow. Its tight, but well manage. Emily, put the kettle on; were famished.

Dinner is a tense affair. John slurps tea loudly, Margaret critiques Emilys soup (too watery, I cook on the bone), and David sits glued to his plate, avoiding Emilys eyes.

So, Margaret says, pushing an empty cup away, weve sold the house, the moneys in the account. We wont buy anything yet. Prices are skyhigh, agents are scroungers. Well stay here, look around, maybe pick a cottage later. Youre okay with that?

Emily opens her mouth to protest, but David jumps in first.

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

Emily kicks his leg under the table, but he doesnt flinch.

The routine settles in. Morning starts at six. John shuffles to the bathroom, then the kitchen, turns on the old radio playing classic rock, and lights a cigarette by the open window despite Emilys countless pleas not to smoke inside. Smoke drifts into the living room.

John, please smoke on the landing! Emily coughs.

Girl, its cold out there, youll catch a chill, he waves off.

At seven Margaret erupts with pots, declaring shell feed us because Emily starves the husband. She scoffs at Davids oatmeal, insisting he needs a proper English breakfast to keep his energy up.

The smell of fried bacon and sausage clogs the flat, staining curtains and Emilys hair. She, a healthconscious person, watches in horror as grease splatters everywhere.

Evenings, when Emily and David finally get home, theyre met with a lecture.

Emily, why havent you ironed the sheets? Theyre all crumpled in the wardrobe. Ive straightened them for you, Margaret chides.

Thanks, but please stop rummaging through my closets, Emily replies, voice thin.

Its only because I want to help, you ungrateful girl, Margaret snaps.

Oliver gets his share of the chaos. Margaret showers him with sweets despite his nut allergy, lets him watch cartoons until midnight, and dismisses any of his parents punishments.

Dont scold him! she shouts when Emily tries to reprimand him for scattering his building blocks. Hes just a little lad!

Two weeks later Emily is on the brink of a breakdown. David stays late at work so the parents are asleep when he returns.

David, this cant go on, Emily whispers in the bathroom, the only place they can talk without an audience. Theyre not even looking for a flat. Theyve moved my flowers into their pots!

Emily, hang on. Ill talk to them this weekend, David promises.

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

David pales. He hates ultimatums but knows shes serious.

The conversation finally happens at Sunday lunch.

Mum, Dad, David begins, nervous, folding a napkin. Emily and I think we should start looking at flats. Prices are rising, moneys losing value. Its getting cramped for all of us.

Margaret freezes midspoonful, John lowers the radio.

Cramped? she repeats, voice trembling. Are we a burden? We cook, we clean, we look after our grandson! Why are you shoving us out?

No ones shoving you, Emily interjects sharply. We just need our own space. I cant sleep with the TV on, I cant breathe cigarette smoke. I want my own kitchen.

Margaret throws her hands up. So the daughter-inlaw is impossible! We cant have you living the way we do! David, do you hear? Your wife is kicking us out!

Mom, Emilys right, David says quietly. We love you, but we need separate homes. Lets look at options tomorrow. Ive found an agent.

Margaret hurls her spoon onto the plate, soup splattering. Ungrateful lot! We sold the house, gave up everything to be near you, and this is how you treat us! John, grab your things! Were leaving!

Where to? Tonight? John asks.

To a hotel or the station! If our children wont have us, well be on the road!

A theatrical scene erupts. Margaret pops valium, clutches her chest, packs bags, sobs. David circles, pleading, apologising. Emily watches from the corner, silent, knowing that any softness now will lock them in forever.

Margaret, Emily says once the storm calms, no one is going to the station. Well find you a flat right now, close by, so you can visit and look after Oliver. But youll live separately. Thats nonnegotiable.

You treat us like strangers! Margaret shouts. Youre strangers!

By evening they reach a compromise. David, through a friend, secures a twobed flat in a neighbouring block. The owners are happy to let them stay for a couple of months.

The move happens the next day. Margaret shuffles out, looking like a martyr headed to the gallows.

Enjoy your new life, she snaps at the door. When youre old, dont be surprised if Oliver pushes you out too.

The door shuts. Emily leans against the wall, then slides to the floor. The flat is suddenly quietno TV, no bacon smell, no scuff of slippers.

I’m sorry, David says, sitting beside her. I was an idiot. I shouldve stood my ground from the start.

Its fine, Emily replies, smiling. The important thing is we survived.

But the story doesnt end there.

A week later Margaret calls, bright and businesslike.

David, weve found a threebed flat in the same area, a newer building. Its a threeroom place, she says.

A threeroom? David asks. Why a threeroom? The council tax is high, the place would be a hassle. Take the twobed; its enough for us.

No, we want the threeroom. Weve got the money from the cottage sale and the land purchase. Weve already paid a deposit.

Fine, good for you, David replies.

Emily exhales, thinking the crisis is finally over. The parents will have their own flat, visit on holidays, and leave them in peace.

But the renovation of the new threeroom drags on. The parents continue to visit the rented flat daily, asking to use the washing machine (the old one sputters), take a shower (the water pressure is weak), or simply sit and chat because theyre bored.

Emily endures, telling herself its only temporary.

Three months later the work finishes. Emily and David bring a new multicooker as a housewarming gift. The flat is spacious, bright. Margaret beams.

Come in, dears! Look at our setup! Heres the living room, heres our bedroom

Emily spots the smallest room, plastered with childrens car-themed wallpaper.

Whats this room for? she asks.

Margaret smiles mysteriously. Its for Oliver! Weve decided he doesnt need to go to nursery. Well raise him here, fiveday weeks. You work, you build your careers. Well look after the grandson.

Emily feels the ground drop out from under her.

Youre joking? Oliver goes to nursery, has friends, prepares for school. He lives with us, not with you. No fiveday weeks.

Why not? Margaret protests. Hell be better with us! Weve bought a bed, packed his toys while you were at work.

Youve taken his toys! Emily snaps, noticing Olivers favourite robot cars on the shelf. You didnt take them, you borrowed them! David gave you spare keys!

Emily turns to David, who looks as red as a beet.

David, hand over the keys. Now.

Mum, give us the keys back, David says hoarsely.

No! Theyre mine too! Im the mother! Margaret shouts.

Give them back! David yells, causing John to drop the remote. Enough! Youve crossed every line! Youre invading our life, our home, and now you want to take our son?

Margaret trembles, clutching a bundle of kitchen towels. Take the grandson! Take him! Dont come back! We dont need kids like you!

Emily grabs Olivers hand; hes still playing in the new room. David lifts the multicooker, still unopened, and they rush out.

In the silent lift, Oliver whimpers, Mum, why did grandma shout? I wanted to keep playing

Grandmas tired, love, Emily whispers, pulling him close. Were going home. To our home.

That night they change the locks, just in case.

Six months pass. Relations with the parents settle into a cold truce. They chat on holidays, meet occasionally in the park. Oliver only sees them when his parents are present.

Margaret tells the neighbours how terrible the daughterinlaw is, claiming shes turned her son against her and wont let her see her grandson. Emily hears it but doesnt mind.

The house is quiet again. Evenings are spent with David, Emily, and Oliver around the small kitchen, laughing about the day, free of unsolicited cooking lessons and unsolicited parenting advice.

One night David asks, Do you regret how harsh we were?

Emily smiles, shakes her head. No. I wish wed done it sooner. Family is us, and we have to protect our world from any intrusion, even if it comes wrapped in parental love.

David embraces her. Youre right. Dad called yesterday, said hes proud I stood up for our family. He spent his whole life under his mothers thumb and regrets it.

Emily nods. Sometimes you have to say no to earn respect.

The red rug never returns. It stays with Margaret in her new flat, where it finally belongs. In their lives theres no room for old rugs any more.