Yesterday, my mother-in-law gathered the entire family to announce who would inherit what. I know some might judge me, but my heart aches for my husband. Last evening, his mother—Margaret Elizabeth—called everyone together. Children, grandchildren, daughters-in-law—all arrived, expecting nothing more than a pleasant family tea. But no. She had assembled us to declare… who would receive what after her passing. Yes, precisely that. She divided her belongings in advance, as she put it, “to avoid quarrels later.” But after this conversation, peace in the family seems unlikely.
When Margaret Elizabeth stated, “The flat in Kensington goes to my youngest, Edward,” my husband, William, visibly stiffened. Then she continued, “As for my eldest, William, he shall have the cottage in the Cotswolds. Emily—that’s me—will inherit the family jewels and grandmother’s china. The rest may divide the shares, the microwave, or Grandfather’s antique clock.” Around the table, glances were exchanged. To say we were startled would be an understatement. As for me, I felt something tighten inside at the sheer unfairness of it.
As the gathering dispersed, William, despite his bewilderment, approached his mother. Calmly, without reproach, he asked, “Mum, why have you chosen to divide things this way? Not that I dispute your right to do so. But surely there were other ways. Just tell me—why?”
And this was her reply. It turned out that in their youth, his parents had poured all their resources into William. They had hoped he would become a diplomat, live and work abroad. They’d been proud of him, arranged a grand wedding, and cared for our son when we were young. In short, by her reckoning, the eldest had already received his share of care, attention, and support.
But Edward, the younger, had always been overlooked. Work, responsibilities, the elder son’s troubles—there was never enough time. So Edward grew up somewhat adrift. He left university, never built a career in sports, married the first woman who’d have him. Now he lives with his wife and child in her parents’ flat. He stays home with the baby while she works, earning more than he ever could. Owning property is beyond their reach; a mortgage seems an unthinkable burden. Margaret Elizabeth said, “He’s fragile because we failed him then. At least let him have a home.”
Yet here’s the rub—William and I have never leaned on our parents. We took out a loan, bought our own house, worked hard to stand on our own feet. So why does it now seem we’re being penalised for our efforts?
I do understand such decisions are deeply personal. Still, the bitterness lingers. Not for myself, but for William. He stays quiet, never complains, yet I see how it wounds him. And now, I don’t know how we’re to face Margaret Elizabeth. After this “distribution,” I scarce wish to speak with her at all. When parents are gone, all that remains are memories. And those may be sweet… or they may turn to gall.
