Sitting around the Christmas tree, my husband’s face was a picture as he reached for the gifts he’d brought. One of the packages looked like a jewellery box, another a piece of clothing – perhaps a pretty new top – and the third was almost certainly luxury chocolates. In short, the presents he was holding had been chosen with care and with no expense spared.
And none of them were for me. They were for his mother, Olive, who lived in the granny annexe. What did I get? Oh, something nice but insignificant – a pair of slippers or a book.
That was in 2006, when Olive first moved into the studio flat in the garden, but it was indicative of how our relationship played out year in, year out, until 2019, when I finally walked away from my marriage.
In effect, there were three people in it, and it felt very cramped – both psychologically and physically. Indeed, I played second fiddle to my mother–in–law for 15 of the 18 years I was married to her son, Graham.
Reports that Princess Beatrice has invited soon–to–be–homeless Sarah Ferguson, 66, to live with her in a one–bed granny annexe – a converted cattle shed on the estate of her £3.5million Cotswolds home – demonstrate how loyal she is and how strong the bond is between mother and daughter.
And I understand that. I too saw my mother–in–law at her lowest ebb. It’s why we also decided to embrace the idea of having granny permanently with us.
But I’d urge Beatrice to think it through very thoroughly. If she wants her five–year marriage to Edoardo Mapelli Mozzi to last, she must carefully consider the pros and cons of having an elderly relative on–site – not just for Christmas, but for life.
Granny flats sound like a wonderful idea in practice. When we began our arrangement, we had two children in a three–bedroom, end–of–terrace house in Shoreham–by–sea, West Sussex – Ella, eight, and Jude, three, while Jake arrived two years later in 2008.
Free babysitting was a major plus point. Olive was a key–holder to the main house and would feed the cats when we weren’t there, too.
But it doesn’t take much for the idyll to turn sour. While I’d always been fond of my mother–in–law, I suddenly found myself last on the list in my own home.
Olive had first dibs on her son’s time and his loyalty and, at times, treated him like a child. Even though she was confined to the granny annexe, Olive became the matriarch of the whole household.
Graham and I met through a mutual friend when I was 23 and he was 24. We were a great match in every way and within six months had moved in and got a mortgage together. We had a fabulous sex life and I felt lucky to have him.
I also knew from the start that Graham was close to his mother. That’s a point in a man’s favour, right? Who wants a husband who’s mean to his mum?
But there’s being close and there’s being tied to the apron strings. Olive’s first child, Patsy, was born with Down’s Syndrome and Graham came a full 17 years later – a mummy’s boy from the word go.
His father died when he was 21 and he and Olive grew even closer. In fact, even once he’d left home, she’d make a scene if he didn’t pop in to see her every single day.
While I wasn’t jealous, I did think it was a bit much. She’d come with us every week to do the big shop at the supermarket. We’d take her on holiday with us every year. Turn around and there she was.
When Graham’s older sister suddenly died, however, there was no question of leaving Olive on her own. We sold our own property and moved in with her, agreeing to a new set up where she took over the granny flat – a studio room with a bedroom and en suite – in the garden.
There was no kitchen area, so it meant that we would share – a factor I overlooked, much to my regret.
When I mentioned it to my girlfriends, they thought I was ‘mad’. They couldn’t see how it would work. My mother, who also lived nearby, thought I was making a mistake, too, and before I’d even unloaded the removal boxes, I did have a minor wobble at the prospect of spending my adult life living with my mother–in–law. But I told myself I was 35, permanently exhausted, with two children under six, and reframed those fears as: ‘Oh goodie, free childcare.’
And for the first few years we all rubbed along together reasonably well. Olive, in her seventies, was still in rude health. She didn’t just help with the children, she was happy to do the cooking and housework, too. It was a good arrangement all round – at first – and the children adored her.
My relationship with Olive at that point took a backseat to her role as grandmother. It was, for me, important that the children respected her as someone older. In return, she was extremely generous to them, buying them sweets and giving them pocket money.
I was triumphant with my friends, and became something of an evangelist for multi–generational living.
In the kitchen I’d let her dictate what we were doing and never challenged her undoubtedly old–fashioned tastes. We ate gammon and liver frequently because she liked it. I went with the flow, and allowed myself to feel smug at the fact I didn’t have to do as much of the cooking.
Yet the downsides began slowly to reveal themselves, and no matter how hard I tried, my resentment began to build.
Almost daily, Graham put her feelings in front of mine. Who would get the morning cup of tea first? Olive, even though that meant traipsing down to the bottom of the garden. She wanted him at her beck and call. For his part, she was his ‘mummy’ and he was there to look after her.
Maintaining a sense of privacy is hard enough in a house with three children, but Olive didn’t ever think to knock or call. Knowing your mother–in–law could be downstairs plumping the cushions in the front room at any time of the day or night is something of a passion killer. Inevitably, it affected our sex life.
And she infantilised him. When Graham lost his job as a tennis coach, she leapt to his defence. If he was careless with money, she would remind me ‘he’s only young, Sara’. The excuses were endless. I’d bite my tongue, wanting to reply: ‘No, Olive, he is 44 and a father of three.’
And there were other niggles. When our youngest, Jake, arrived in 2008, she disagreed with my plan to breastfeed for a year. In fact, I often had to listen to her opinion about the parenting choices I was making for my own family.
On occasion, it was difficult for the children, too, because they had three adults to answer to. She wasn’t neglectful, but she did think children should be independent far earlier than I did. Once I returned home, horrified, to find my 18 month old playing in the garden next to the pond. When I tackled her about it, she refused to acknowledge that it was an issue.
I tried though, I really did. We’d do crafting together – she was a whizz at knitted blankets and crochet toys – and I’d sell them for her at markets.
Yet, as the years went by, Olive gradually became more dependent on the two of us. In her late seventies, she developed cataracts and couldn’t see well. Things got dropped in the kitchen and her efforts at housework were, at best, slapdash.
My mother also chipped in with the housework, which Olive didn’t approve of. She called my mum ‘interfering’ and criticised how she used the vacuum or hung out the washing.
And what Olive thought was clean wasn’t. I’d have to secretly re–do the kitchen after she’d been through it and listen to Graham endlessly thanking her.
The next health crisis was her diminishing hearing, which meant we could no longer leave the children with her. Instead, Graham became her carer and at night moved into a room off the kitchen, which we converted into a bedroom, so he could get up for her if she needed him. In reality we now had four dependents in the house.
Having been a full–time mum, I went to work as a leisure centre receptionist while Graham remained at home as her carer and, for a while, Olive turned on me – she was incandescent that I had some sort of a career, and would snipe at me for not knowing what the kids were up to because ‘you’ve been at work all day’.
By 2016, a decade after we all began to live together, Olive’s arthritis was so bad she couldn’t go out unless she was in her wheelchair, accompanied by Graham.
Even his patience was wearing thin. I felt for him, caring for his mum full–time wasn’t what he or any of us had signed up for.
In 2019, however, I found out that he was having an affair. I was utterly devastated because I’d trusted him completely. But when I talked to Olive about it, there wasn’t one iota of sympathy.
To think she would be ‘Team Sara’ was pushing it, but her reaction flummoxed me. Instead, I was told ‘he’s not the first and he won’t be the last’ to be led astray. She even told me I should ‘suck it up and get on with my life’.
But I did what I should have done a long time ago and left the house, taking the children with me. I know life would have felt very lonely in that house without us.
Two years later, in 2021, Olive died. While I don’t feel responsible for that, I don’t think our split helped her health.
Yet if Graham had been asked to choose between his mother and me, I know without a shadow of a doubt he’d have chosen her. It makes me feel like a second class citizen – even now.
I now live with my two sons, 17 and 22. My daughter lives with her partner and as much as I miss her, I’d never foist myself on her. It wouldn’t be fair on her other half. Even if I was invited to do so, it’s not my children’s place to look after me.
My advice for Beatrice if she’s still contemplating this sort of set up? Make sure the annexe is totally independent – and don’t give your mum a key to the main house.
As told to Sam Brick
