**Diary Entry**
Eleven years with my husband, and weve finally paid off the mortgage on our two-bed flat in London after years of scraping by. Raising our eight-year-old son, life was ticking along just fineuntil my mother-in-law had another one of her “brilliant” ideas, threatening our hard-won peace.
My husband has a younger brother, Alfie. Seventeen, and if Im honest, we barely know him. The age gap means theyre hardly close. Worse, it grates on my husband how their parents coddle Alfiespoiling him rotten, excusing every misstep, never expecting an ounce of effort.
Alfies barely scraping through sixth form, one detention away from expulsion. Yet every failed test is rewardeda new gaming console, the latest trainers. “Back in my day,” my husband mutters, “a fail meant extra revision, not a shopping spree.”
I couldnt agree more. Weve watched Alfie refuse to so much as heat up his own dinner, lounging at the table until his parents serve him, clear his plate, then vanish without a “cheers” or “ta.” Doesnt know where his own socks are, cant boil a kettle, lives in chaos. My husbands warned his mum for years: “Youre turning him into a liability!” She just shrugs: “Hes not like you. He needs more nurturing.”
Rows, grudges, weeks of silencethats always been the fallout. We stayed out of ituntil Alfie decided to study at a university in our city.
Cue my mother-in-laws shameless proposal: Alfie should move in with us. No halls, she claimedtoo expensive, no guarantor, and hed be “lost” on his own. “Youre family! Youve got space!” she insisted.
I tried reason: our bedroom, our sonswhere exactly would a grown lad sleep? Her solution? “Bunk him with your boy! Theyll bond!”
Thats when my husband snapped. “Im not a babysitter, Mum. Your kid, your problem. At seventeen, I was living on my ownmanaged just fine!”
Cue tears, slammed doors, accusations of heartlessness. By evening, his father rang, guilt-tripping: “Family sticks together!”
But my husband held firm. Hed visit Alfieif they sorted his own flat. Living with us? Not a chance. “Time he grew up.”
“Hes only seventeen!” his dad protested.
“And so was I when I left home,” my husband shot back before hanging up.
Then came the texts”Forget your inheritance.” Frankly? If “inheritance” means parenting a spoiled brat, no thanks. Weve built our own securitythrough work, not handouts.
Lifes taught us this much: sometimes, guarding your peace means saying no. And if someones choices lead to chaos, thats on themnot us.
