My mother-in-law took offence at the “handout”: she saw the old furniture as an insult
I’ve been married for three years. No children yet, though thoughts of motherhood have been floating around for a while. All this time, my husband and I have been renting a flat in central London—not because we couldn’t afford better, but because my mother-in-law, Margaret Williams, refused to let us move into her one-bedroom flat, which had stood empty for years.
She raised Ilya—my husband, now called James—on her own. The flat was given to her decades ago by the textile factory where she worked for twenty years. Later, she remarried.
“My stepdad was a good man—he really was like a father to me,” James told me. “But he and Mum were always rowing. She was forever moaning about money, never satisfied with what she had.”
Her second husband had a daughter from his first marriage. He wanted to adopt James, but Margaret was dead against it—afraid of losing her benefits. When she moved in with her new husband, she simply locked up her old flat. No renovations, no renting it out—claiming it wasn’t worth the hassle.
After our wedding, we asked if we could live there—modest, but at least it’d be ours. She wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re on the verge of divorce,” she snapped. “He’s tight-fisted, lazy, useless. I’m only with him for the money. Once we split, where will I go if you’ve already moved in?”
Sure enough, she filed for divorce soon after. But she didn’t rush to move out. Then tragedy struck—her husband passed away. Margaret was certain his two-bedroom flat would go to her. Instead, his daughter inherited everything.
Around the same time, my grandmother died, leaving me her cosy two-bedroom house. James and I began renovating, planning our move. But Margaret’s meltdown ruined everything.
“I waited on him hand and foot while that daughter of his never even visited! I made his meals, brought his medicine—and now that girl, that Emily, gets to live in London off his inheritance while I’m stuck in this damp little flat! Some justice!” she screamed over the phone.
She brought it all on herself—refusing adoption, refusing to live with us. Arguing was pointless. So she ended up back in that empty, neglected flat. No furniture, no comfort—just bare walls.
James felt sorry for her. He wanted to fix the place up, at least give it a fresh coat of paint. I suggested moving my grandmother’s furniture there—we were going to replace it anyway. It was clean, sturdy—just not brand-new.
Margaret had taken some things from her late husband’s flat, but most were built-in appliances she couldn’t remove. And his daughter, sharp as a tack, wasn’t parting with anything valuable.
When we delivered the furniture, she made a scene.
“What’s this? Hand-me-downs from the attic? My husband’s gone, and you treat me like rubbish! You buy new things for yourselves but dump junk on me! Disgrace!” she shrieked right there in the hallway.
Never mind that Gran’s sofa was barely four years old and hardly used. Our new furniture had been a gift from my parents. Why Margaret expected us to furnish her flat from scratch was a mystery. Worse, she demanded we take it all back, accusing us of having money for renovations but none for her.
We walked away, leaving the furniture in the corridor. I assumed James would collect it over the weekend—but no. Margaret got a neighbour to help drag it inside. Guess she realised pride doesn’t pay the bills when your pockets are empty.
So there she is—resentful, surrounded by second-hand things, clinging to her pride. But pride doesn’t cook dinner or keep you warm at night. Sometimes, it’s better to swallow it before it swallows you whole.
