I never wanted to live with my father-in-law… until I realised just how much he loved us.
Tom and I married young—barely past twenty. The love between us was so fierce it made my heart race. We had no place of our own, just a rented flat in Croydon. We scraped by on promises and big dreams, barely making ends meet. But we were happy. Even when money was tight and our goals seemed miles away, we believed better days would come.
When we started talking about children, Tom’s voice grew serious.
*”I want a son. A proper family, complete.”*
I nodded. So did I. But as soon as the words left his lips, reality sank in—we needed a proper home. A shabby rented flat was no place to raise a child. Money? We barely had enough for groceries. Half our wages vanished into rent and bills. The rest went on food, clothes, and the odd night out just to keep our spirits up.
I turned to my parents, foolishly hoping for a loan. But Mum just shook her head.
*”We’ve got our own expenses. Your brother’s still in school, and we’re saving for his future. He’ll need his own place one day. You should’ve been smarter, married someone with a house already.”*
I swallowed my tears, locking the hurt away. Fine. We’d manage.
Tom had the answer.
*”Let’s move in with Dad. He’s been asking. His three-bed in Kensington is too big for just him, and it’s closer to my work. We’ll save what we’re spending on rent now for a mortgage.”*
I resisted—but the logic was solid. So we packed up and moved in with my father-in-law, William.
And that’s when the real test began. His flat was stuck in the 1970s—peeling wallpaper, cracked tiles, the kitchen reeking of old frying and pipe tobacco. Tom and I scrubbed, painted, replaced. He fixed dripping taps and creaky doors while I washed curtains, hung new ones, desperate to make it feel like home.
William hated it.
*”Enough with your fussing!”* he’d grumble. *”I was fine before you came.”*
Every morning, his routine complaints began:
*”That pan doesn’t belong there!”*
*”Unplug the telly when you’re not using it!”*
*”You’re wasting water—like we’re made of money!”*
*”In my day, one toilet roll lasted a month!”*
That last one tipped me over.
*”Well, women don’t *just* use it the way men do!”*
I regretted snapping. But pregnancy hormones, morning sickness, and his nightly lectures—over a glass of whisky—about how he *”gave his best years at the factory”* and *”your mother-in-law put up with worse”*… well, patience wore thin.
Still, I held on. Nine months. For our future.
Then the miracle—Tom landed a better-paid job. We saved enough for a deposit, and suddenly—there it was. Our own flat, a new-build on the outskirts. Bright, clean, peaceful. Fresh paint, new furniture.
William didn’t cry when we left. If anything, he seemed relieved.
*”Finally—I can watch football loud as I like,”* he muttered, hiding a smirk.
Our son arrived. In the hospital, a nurse handed me a bag. I assumed it was from Tom. Inside—my favourite yoghurts, cottage cheese, oranges… and strawberry jam. At the bottom, a note:
*”For my girl. So your milk’s rich for my grandson.”*
I sobbed. That was love—no grand gestures, just quiet care.
I don’t call him *”father-in-law”* anymore. He’s *”Dad.”* Sundays, he turns up with roast dinners and apple crumble. Our boy sprints to him, yelling, *”Grandad, buy me that toy car? The red one!”*—and next morning, there it is.
Last year, we surprised him—new floors, fresh paint, proper furniture. Let his retirement be comfortable. He’d earned it. For sharing his roof. For that jar of jam.
Sometimes I tease him—
*”Dad, you nearly drove us apart. Now you’re stuck with us.”*
He just waves me off.
*”Good. Means it was worth it.”*
