— Parents: My Flat, Me: A Rental? No, dear, you get the rental, while I get my freedom!

28May2025

Today I finally put pen to paper about the chaos that has been my home for months. My parentsinlaw, Margaret Whitfield, have taken over my flat as if it were a holiday cottage, while I, David Clarke, am left to pick up the pieces.

Margaret drifted into the living room, eyes scanning the space as if she were arranging a showroom. If we moved the armchair there, a wardrobe could stand against the wall, she muttered, waving a hand toward the corner. Just get rid of that chairits useless anyway. Where will you put it, dear?

I blinked. It took a moment for the realization to hit: she wasnt a TV decorator, she was my motherinlaw, and here was my own flat, bought with my savings from twentyeight years of freelance work, endless contracts, and cutting back on takeaway coffees.

I guess Ill just wear it on my head, I replied slowly, standing up. What? Are you moving in?

Margaret smiled, a grin that felt more victorious than warm. Were only discussing it, she said. My husband Denis and I looked at the placespacious, designerfinished. Its uncomfortable to stay in a rented flat, and after Pauls disastrous crash hes drowning in debts. You understand family is family. She pronounced family as if I didnt belong to that category.

Youre clever, Emily, you have a steady income. You wont be left out. Were old nowwhere will we crawl around in cramped rentals?

Youre both sixtyfive, I snapped back. Youre not retirees; youre enjoying an active golden agecrosswords, garden weekends. What does my flat have to do with that?

Margarets lip trembled, then she drew her signature weapon. I gave you that husband, you know. He stood by you when you were in the hospital with your anemia. Now his brother is in trouble and you turn away?

When his brother smashed the family car into a pole with a stranger in the passenger seat, nobody called to see if we should move in with you while Paul patches up his moral and credit wounds, Emily fought back, voice barely contained.

Emily, Denis called from the kitchen, pretending to be busy. Were just talking, the parents arent making any claims.

I walked to the door and whispered, While you argue, I still live in my flatyour very own Pavlovs Hostel wont happen. I held back a scream, exhaled, and retreated to the bedroom.

For three days Denis and I spoke only in halfsentencesDid you pick up the milk? Dont forget Mums birthday on Saturday. I nodded or pretended not to hear. A thick, sticky silence settled over the flat, not the calm kind but the sort that hides resentment in every wall.

Saturday arrived and the tension broke.

Emily, Denis stared out the window, as if ready to leap, I know its hard for you, but my parents have no other way out. The bank has a charge on Dads name, the flat is on the market, and they could be on the street in a month. You

What? I asked.

Youre strong. Youll find a way. We could stay in a cheap rent for a couple of months, then figure something out.

I wanted to swing a frying pan, then hug him, but I simply asked, So I have to leave my own home because my inlaws cant manage their own children?

Thats not it, he said. We just have more options.

My brain isnt something you toss around like Pauls wrecked car, I retorted, a bitter smile forming. Do you want me to tell you the better way?

How? he whispered.

Pack your things and get out. He froze, the first time in our whole marriage he didnt know what to say. In his face I saw not a husband, but a shadow of someone else.

I wont leave, he breathed. This is my home toobought with my money.

But were a family, arent we? Isnt family about sacrifice?

Sacrifice is when youre asked, not when its thrust upon you. Do you know the difference between a victim and a fool? The victim still has a choice.

I didnt scream or sob; I simply pulled my suitcasehis suitcaseinto the hallway.

You can go wherever you like, rent a studio, crash at Mums, even sleep on your brothers roof. But this flat stays mine. You and your mother can forget the way back.

He left, emptyhanded, eyes like a beaten dog. As he walked out he warned, Youll regret this. No one lives alone forever. I watched him go and thought, Im not alone; I have myself. He, however, seems clueless about who he truly is.

Later that evening a knock came. I opened the door to find my friend Lucy, cheeks flushed. Whats with you, love? she squeezed me. Just last week you said Paul wasnt that bad. Now what?

I poured myself a glass of red wine. Now hes just like his motherfull of cabinets and schemes for my bedroom.

Lucy laughed. You knew his mother was a fury. Why did you get involved?

Because he seemed sane.

Seems is the key word, she said, eyes twinkling. Maybe we should head south? Youre on forced holiday anyway.

Im staying put, I replied. If her cabinet shows up, Ill toss it off the balcony from the third floor.

She giggled, then went quiet. What if he comes back?

I stared at the wine, replaying the week. Then Ill buy a drill and smash the coded lock that only I know.

Saturday, ten oclock, I was about to make tea when a courier from CityShop rang. I opened the door and froze. Margaret stood there, suitcase in hand, with Paulher sonleaning against her, thin, in tracksuits, a look of hopeless hope on his face. Beside them, Paul Sr., a short, balding man resembling a pensioner who had seen better days in 87, shuffled forward.

Good morning, Margaret said sweetly, as if wed arranged tea. Well only be here a couple of months while the flat sells.

I could not answer; the words were gone.

Emily, Paul Sr. interjected, sorry for the inconvenience. Weve spoken with Aunt Margaret; shell let us stay while the work is done. Denis mentioned you wouldnt mind us moving in.

Denis? I finally mustered. Did he say that before or after I threw him out?

Did you fight? Margaret asked, already stepping over the threshold. We just want a peaceful solution. Dont be angry, love.

Their presence in my flat felt like strangers taking over a guestroom. Paul started dragging his suitcase, smelling of cigarettes and a garage. Dont bring that over the threshold, Margaret hissed, its bad luck.

Its only bad luck when youre invited, not when you occupy, I muttered, but no one heard.

They settled. Paul flopped onto the sofa, legs up on the coffee table. Paul Sr. inspected the balcony. Can we smoke out here?

Here you can stay silent, I snapped. And leave quickly.

Margaret unpacked a jar of pickles, a bag of buckwheat, and some cake tins. I brought a few things so you dont have to worry. Well live together like decent people. I love order, and my hand is lighteverything grows!

Are you talking about potatoes in the bathroom or a cactus in a pot? I retorted.

Enough sarcasm, Margaret warned. Times are hard for everyone, but you and Denis must stick together. Im a mother. I care.

I cared when you forced borscht on me on Sundays despite my pleas, I shot back. I cared when you suggested I change jobs because teachers have stability. And I cared when you barged into my home with suitcases, unannounced. Thats an invasion, Margaret. Are you waging war?

Paul tried to intervene. Emily, we have nowhere else. My brother said youre understanding.

My brother was wrong, and youre wrong too.

I dialed Denis. He answered after three rings. Hey, cant talkmeeting

Meeting, right, I said. My familys here with suitcases, your brother, mother, father. Did you say Im okay with that?

A long, chewinggum silence stretched. I thought youd sort it out. Youre not cruel; you have a big heart

Now theres a big hole, he muttered. Youre free of me and this flat. Good luck. And remember, your mothers hand is light on the shelves. I hung up.

By evening Margaret suggested we all sleep in the bedroom while I used the sitting room. I refused. Three of you for one room? Thats exactly what Ive been waiting for all my lifeno.

She called me selfish. A woman should be gentle.

A man should have a roof over his head if hes an adult, I retorted. Or marry a woman with a flat, like my husband.

She sneered, Youre spoiled. People dont live alone at our age.

I shot back, You live off other peoples money at our age. Funny, isnt it?

Monday morning I headed to work with a single thought: finish them off before its too late. At the reception a security guard, Nina, stopped me. Emily, a young man claimed to be from the housing committee, wanted your number. I didnt give it.

Which committee? I asked.

God knows, she shrugged, but he was cute and carried a backpack with a plastic chest of drawers.

A plastic chest of drawers. Margaret. A sign.

That evening I visited my downstairs neighbour, Mrs. OLeary, a perpetually grumpy pensioner. If you hear shouting, the smell of borscht, call the constable. Ive got an invasion on my hands. She nodded, Ill help.

Next morning I called the constable and had him come to my flat. He knocked, looked tired, and said, We have a report youre illegally occupying this flat.

Margaret snarled, How is that illegal?

Are you the owner? he asked, flipping through paperwork.

No but shes my daughterinlaw! I replied, handing over the documents.

Margarets face turned ashen. Paul hid in the bathroom, Paul Sr. coughed. The officer gave us an hour to pack or wed be treated as squatters. We left in silence, no goodbyes.

At the door Margaret warned, Youll feel lonely soon enough.

I closed the door, dropped onto the floor, and laughed. Loneliness is living with those who never hear you. The kettle only whistles when I want it to. I got up, went to my bedroom, and noticed a small, cheap plastic chest of drawers standing in the corner, a note tucked inside: Well be back. Love, M.W.

A week later the flat was spotless, like an operating theatre after sterilisation. I began locking doors with a satisfying click, sipping tea in the quiet, without Pauls rumbling belly or the smell of boiled offal. Occasionally Id listen at the stairwell on Saturdays, catching whispers that Margaret had moved in with a distant cousin in BirleyHill, where a balcony lacked double glazing and a cat stared like a hawk.

I kept the plastic chest in the storage cupboardjust in case. It became a symbol: some things you cant erase, you can only tuck away.

On a Saturday at seven, while washing glasses for the sake of order, a knock sounded. I braced for more legal threats, but it was Denis, in fresh jeans, holding a bouquet of chrysanthemums like a funeral wreath. Behind him, his mother, in a furcollared coat, looked like a woman dragged to a psychiatrists office. Beside her stood a plump blonde with a round belly, holding a pot of borscht.

I exhaled. Another show? I asked.

This is Olya, Denis said, were together now. Shes expecting.

Whats the rush? I smirked. It hasnt even been a month since you were kicked out.

Weve known each other for ages, Olya chimed in, just never found the right moment to tell you.

Margaret stood stiff as a brick, lips twitching.

Denis rubbed his neck. Weve been together since last November. I didnt want to break the marriage I thought we could still have something but when you threw me out, I realised

I didnt throw you out. I saved myself, I replied. Now what do you want?

We want to sell the flat.

Silence hung. Then I laughed, the kind of laugh you reserve for con artists at a train station. Sell this flat? Mine?

It was in both our names, Denis stammered. We bought it together.

We divorced, and I bought out your share. Transfer on the bank, you remember? I have the receipt. Ask the solicitor, or ask your new friendshes a lawyer, right? Olya bit her lip.

We thought youd share fairly, Denis said.

Of course, I said, heres a spoon, heres a bowl. Ill share the borscht. I took the pot from Olya, set it on the mat outside, slammed the door, and locked it twice.

Margarets voice drifted from behind the door, Youll regret this! When old age comes youll be alone!

Id rather be alone than share a kitchen with you and your borscht.

A week later a court summons arrived, Denis suing over my purchase of his share. I opened the cupboard, found the plastic chest of drawers and the note again: Well be back. Love, M.W. I smiled, Youll be back, but not for long. I gathered all the paperworkbank transfers, receipts, screenshots, photos of Denis and Olya from a year agoand placed them on the desk.

Then the phone rang. Hello, is this Lara Whitfield? This is Evelyn Clarke. Remember you said youd help if I ever wanted to sell? Its time. Id like to buy through you, mortgage, tomorrow, official.

The hearing lasted twenty minutes. I placed the documents before the judge, told him the flat had already been sold to the bank. He looked at Denis, then at me, and said, Mr. Clarke, the claim is dismissed. No grounds to contest the sale. You should be grateful anyone lived with a woman like you.

I stood, walked out, and Denis called after me, Youve left us all homeless!

No, Denis. You left yourselves. I just closed the door.

Margaret lingered in the courtroom hallway, silent, then turned and whispered, You won, but dont rejoice. We were your family.

I stopped. We were. But family isnt the people who fight over a pot. Its the people who share responsibility.

Three months later Im in a modest new flat of my own. A tiny sign above the shelf reads, No entry without invitation. In the corner sits the same cheap plastic chest of drawers, a reminder that some things you cant forget, only push to the side.

Lesson learned: ownership isnt about walls or titles; its about knowing when to close a door and still keep the key to your own peace.