This Is Our Shared Flat, I’m the Landlord Here Too, Declared the Son’s Girlfriend

This is our shared flat, Im the one who lives here too, declared Emma, Andrews girlfriend, as she stepped into the hallway.

Mom, why are you barging into my room again without knocking? Andrew burst out of his bedroom, his face twisted with irritation.

What knock? This is my flat! Margaret Thompson placed a basket of freshly laundered towels on the floor. I just brought in the clean laundry and dropped it off.

You could have taken it from the bathroom yourself!

I could have, but I didnt. Its been sitting there for two days.

Andrew snorted, slammed the door and retreated back to his room. The door slammed shut.

Margaret sighed and went to the kitchen to fill the kettle. Lately her son had become nervous, snappy, snapping at any little thingsomething that never used to happen.

She was fiftyseven, having devoted her whole life to her only child. Her husband had left when Andrew was five; she never remarried and raised him alone, juggling two jobs to make sure he never wanted for anything. Hed gone to a good school, then university, and now held a respectable position at a construction firm.

The threebedroom flat was in Margarets name; shed inherited it from her parents before the divorce. They lived togetherher, Andrew, each in their own room, the third a shared living area.

Margaret set out the cups, pulled out a tin of biscuits. Andrew appeared in the doorway, now calmer.

Sorry, Mum. I lost my temper, he said.

Its all right. Have a seat, lets have some tea.

He sat opposite her, taking a cup.

Mum, I need to talk to you.

She sensed the seriousness in his tone.

Im listening.

I want Emma to move in with us. To live here.

Margaret froze, the cup trembling in her hand.

Emma? Your girlfriend?

Yes. Weve been together for six months, you know.

I know. But for her to move in Andrew, are you thinking of getting married?

Not yet, he averted his gaze. We just want to live together, see if were compatible.

And where will she stay? In your room?

Yes.

Andrew, thats inconvenient. I live here, and you two

Mum, Im a grown man, thirty now. Its time I started building a personal life.

Im not opposed to your personal life! Margaret placed her cup down. But I think you need a separate place. Rent a flat, for example.

Why rent when we have a threebedroom flat? Theres plenty of space for everyone.

Think about it, Andrew. Im used to a certain order. Now a stranger will be moving in

Shes not a stranger! Shes my girlfriend!

To me shes a stranger, Margaret said firmly. Ive only seen her three times; we barely know each other.

Youll get to know her when she moves in.

No, Margaret shook her head. Im sorry, but Im against it.

Andrew sprang to his feet.

You know what, Mum? Im tired of asking your permission for everything! Im an adult!

In my flat youll keep asking.

In your flat, Andrew smirked. You keep reminding me Im just a tenant, not your son.

A lump rose in Margarets throat.

Andrew, I didnt mean it like that

Fine, well talk later.

He stalked back to his room. Margaret sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window, her heart heavy. She didnt want a fight with her son, but she also didnt want a stranger in her home.

That evening she called her sister Lucy.

Lucy, Ive got a problem. Andrew wants his girlfriend to move in with us.

To the flat?

Yes. Im against it, and hes upset.

Lucy was silent for a beat.

Did you really think he was an adult already? He needs his own life.

I know! But can they just rent somewhere?

Where will the money come from? Rents pricey now. Youve got a big flat, plenty of room.

Are you taking his side?

Im not on anyones side. I just think itll happen sooner or later. He cant stay alone forever.

Margaret hung up feeling betrayed; even her sister didnt back her.

A few days passed with almost no conversation between mother and son. Andrew came home late from work, ate in silence, then retreated to his room. Margaret suffered the cold silence, but pride kept her from being the first to reach out.

One Friday night Andrew came home with a woman.

Hi, Mum. Emma will be staying over, he said, heading to his room.

Margaret froze in the hallway. Emma smiled shyly.

Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson.

Good afternoon.

The girl slipped past Andrew as the door shut. Margaret lingered in the corridor, stunned. Hed brought her in without warning, as if she owned the place.

She retreated to her own room, anger churning. How could he do that?

The next morning Margaret rose early, as usual, and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. Half an hour later Andrew arrived, Emma trailing him.

Good morning, Emma said.

Good morning, Margaret replied tersely.

They sat at the table. Margaret poured tea and laid out toast. They ate in silence.

Mrs. Thompson, your flat is very cosy, Emma remarked suddenly.

Thank you.

Andrew told me youve lived here a long time.

Since I was born. This flat belonged to my parents.

I see, Emma nodded. You must be very attached.

Of course.

An awkward pause settled. Andrew stared at his phone, not joining the conversation.

I have to go to work, Margaret said, even though her shift didnt start for another two hours. She slipped out, changed, and left the flat, wandering the streets to pass the time.

She returned late that night to find the flat quiet; Andrew was in the lounge watching television.

Wheres Emma? Margaret asked.

Shes gone home.

Right.

Margaret reheated her dinner. Andrew stood in the doorway.

Mum, we need to talk. Properly.

Im listening.

I know its uncomfortable for you, but Emma really matters to me. I want us to live together.

Andrew, Im not against her, Margaret sighed. Im just scared.

Scared of what?

That everything will change. That Ill become irrelevant in my own home.

You wont be. Its still your flat.

Its my flat now. And then shell come, and Ill be in the way.

Dont imagine things.

Im not imagining. Young people want space, but mothers always there.

Andrew sat beside her.

Lets work this out. Emma moves in, but well try not to intrude on you. We keep our own room, you keep yours.

The kitchen and bathroom will be shared.

Exactly. Well split the time.

Margaret looked at her sons pleading eyes. He truly loved the girl.

Alright, she whispered. Let her move in. Well try.

Andrew hugged her.

Thank you, Mum. You wont regret this.

Emma moved in a week later with two suitcases and a box of makeup. Margaret greeted them warmly, helping carry the bags.

Thank you, Mrs. Thompson, Emma smiled. Ill try not to be a burden.

Make yourself at home.

The first days were peaceful. Emma was courteous, kept to herself, cooked separately, cleaned up after herself. Then the little irritations began.

Margaret noticed the bathroom now filled with rows of new bottles and jars, taking over the shelf shed always used.

Andrew, could I ask Emma to move some of her cosmetics? Theres nowhere to turn in the bathroom, Margaret said one evening.

Mom, she needs somewhere to store them.

Let her keep them in your room.

Theres no space there.

Then the bathroom?

Andrew grimaced. Ill ask her.

The makeup didnt disappear; more tubes appeared.

Later Margaret found the kitchen rearrangedcups not where they belonged, pots shuffled.

Emma, did you move this? she asked calmly.

Yes, I tidied up. Its more convenient, isnt it?

I liked it the way it was.

But this is impracticalheavy pots on the top shelf, light ones below. Im doing it right.

Margaret said nothing, returned everything to its original place. Emma rearranged again that evening, sparking a silent war over kitchen placement.

Andrew, talk to her, Margaret pleaded.

Mom, does it matter where things are?

It matters to me! Im used to this.

Emma also wants convenience.

This is my kitchen!

Its now shared, Andrew replied, walking away. The shared flat had truly become shared.

Emmas belongings slowly spreadmagazines on the sofa, shoes by the hall, bags on the balcony. Margaret felt herself being edged out of her own home, yet she kept quiet, not wanting to break with her son.

One day she returned from work to find two unfamiliar women in the kitchen, laughing loudly over coffee.

Who are they? Margaret asked Emma.

My friends. Were rehearsing a dance; we need space.

You could have given a warning.

Why? Emma raised an eyebrow. This is our shared flat, and Im also a homeowner here.

The comment hit Margaret like a slap. She stood frozen, unable to respond.

Mrs. Thompson, please, step inside, one of the friends smiled.

Thank you, Ill go to my room, Margaret muttered, closing the door behind her, hands trembling.

She sat on the bed, the word homeowner echoing in her mind. The girl whod been here only a week now claimed ownership of the place.

That night Andrew entered, his face drawn.

I need to talk. Urgently.

Whats happened?

Come to the kitchen.

They sat at the table. Emmas door was closed.

Andrew, your girlfriend brought friends without telling anyone.

And so?

This is my flat!

Mom, youre starting again.

Im not starting! She said this is a shared flat and that shes the homeowner!

Andrew winced.

She didnt mean to offend. She just chose the wrong words.

Wrong words? She said shes the homeowner in my house!

Andrew, she lives here. Of course she feels at home.

But its not her house!

Whose then? Only yours? I dont live here, do I?

You live here, youre my son. And she

Shes my girlfriend. I want her comfortable.

So it doesnt matter to me?

Andrew stood, his voice rising.

Enough, Mum. Youre just jealous of a woman being near me. Youre jealous.

What? Im not jealous! I just want respect in my own home!

Then respect others!

He left for his room. Margaret stayed at the kitchen counter, fighting back tears. Everything had gone wrong, far from what shed imagined.

The next morning she called Lucy again.

Gale, I told you itd be hard.

You said there was enough space for everyone!

I meant physically. Psychologically its always tough when a stranger moves in.

What should I do?

She wont listen! Use me.

But Andrew is on Emmas side. I feel betrayed.

Lucy was quiet a moment.

Maybe you should think about getting your own place? Youre a grown man; you need personal space.

I suppose youre right. Ill consider it. Maybe Ill rent a flat.

Ill help with the deposit, Margaret said.

Thanks, Mum.

They sat, sipping tea as the street lights flickered on. Margaret felt a strange relief. The nightmare had endedEmma was gone, Andrew was with her, and the flat was hers again.

But she knew this peace was temporary. Sooner or later Andrew would find another partner, want to marry, have children, and the question of space would rise again.

Mom, what are you thinking about? Andrew asked later.

Just life, she replied.

You dont need to worry. Ill look for a flat and move out. Ill still visit.

Visit, Margaret smiled. Ill bake you pies.

Perfect. No one will get in the way.

The next day Andrew left for work. Margaret walked through the rooms, clearing away Emmas makeup, restoring the kitchen to its familiar order, taking the stray boxes from the balcony. The flat was hers again, only hers.

A pang of sadness settled over her despite the order.

That evening Lucy called.

Hows it going?

Emma moved out.

Completely?

Yes. We argued, and Andrew asked her to leave.

How do you feel?

Strange. I got what I wanted, but I feel empty.

Because you know hell eventually move on.

I get that.

Maybe you should have endured? Got used to her?

You think she was a brat? You shouldve heard what she said!

I did, but perhaps she was just defending herself. She felt rejected, so she snapped.

Margaret thought back to her own early marriage, when her motherinlaw had been cold, critical, and how they eventually became friends after months of tension.

Maybe it could have been the same, she whispered. But its too late now.

Never too late, Lucy urged. Call her, try to talk like adults.

I dont know

Think of Andrew. He loves her.

After the call, Margaret sat with the phone, indecisive. Part of her wanted to reach out, part of her felt shed already fought enough.

She finally dialed.

Hello? Emmas voice was guarded.

This is Margaret. Can we meet?

Why?

Id like to talk, calmly, no shouting.

Okay. Where?

A café near the station, tomorrow.

Margaret arrived early, ordered tea, and watched the door. Emma entered, eyes tired, cheeks puffed.

Hello.

Hi. Please, sit.

Emma ordered coffee.

Tell me whats on your mind.

Margaret took a breath.

Emma, Im sorry. I was wrong.

In what way?

I didnt give you a chance. I was scaredscared Id lose my son, that youd take him from me.

Emma hesitated.

I didnt intend to take him. I just wanted to be near him.

I understand now. Im sorry.

I was rude too, Emma admitted, lowering her head. Saying the flat would be mine was nasty. I was defending myself.

You were just protecting yourself.

Yes. I felt unwelcome, so I snapped back.

Silence settled.

Can we start over? Margaret asked.

Do you want me back?

I do, if we both agree to respect each other, to compromise.

Emma considered.

Does Andrew know Im calling you?

No, this is my initiative.

Alright. I need time to think.

Of course. Just know I want to fix thisfor Andrews sake and yours.

Emma nodded, promising to call later.

Three days later Andrew seemed withdrawn, barely speaking. Margaret saw his pain but didnt know how to help.

Emma called later.

Margaret, Ive thought about it. Lets try. I wont move back immediately. First we should get to know each othermeet sometimes, talk.

Great idea. Lets do that.

They began meeting weekly, café outings, park walks, simple conversations. Margaret discovered Emma was intelligent, wellread, genuinely kind. Emma softened, became more open.

A month later Andrew asked, Mum, are you seeing Emma?

Yes. Why?

Just its odd. You two used to fight.

Weve made up. People can change, Andrew.

Another month passed and Emma moved back in, but this time with clear rules. They split chores, respected each others space, and even laughed about the early battles.

It was hard, there were arguments, but they solved problems with talk, not shouting.

Margaret realized the core truth: loving her son didnt mean possessing him. He was an adult with his own life. Her role was to let go, stay supportive when needed, not to hold him captive.

Emma turned out not to be a bad girl, just a rough start. Sometimes, all it takes is a step toward each other, and even the toughest situations find a way forward.