My mother-in-law took offense at what she called a “handout”—she saw the old furniture as an insult.
I’ve been married for three years. No children yet, though thoughts of motherhood have lingered in the air for a while. All this time, my husband and I have been renting a flat in the heart of Liverpool—not because we couldn’t afford better, but because my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, refused to let us move into her one-bedroom flat, which had stood empty for years.
She raised Ilya—my husband—on her own. The flat was given to her by the textile factory where she worked for two decades. Later, she remarried.
“My stepfather was a good man,” my husband would say. “He really was like a father to me. But he and Mum were always fighting. She complained endlessly about money, about never having enough.”
Her second husband had a daughter from his first marriage. He wanted to adopt my husband, but Margaret was dead against it—afraid of losing state benefits. When she moved in with her new husband, she simply locked up her old flat. No renovations, no renting it out—no point, she claimed.
After the wedding, we asked if we could live there—modest, but our own place. She wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re about to divorce,” she snapped. “He’s stingy, lazy, useless. I’m only staying for the money. Where will I go if you’re already in my flat?”
Sure enough, she filed for divorce soon after. But she didn’t move out. Then tragedy struck—her husband died. Margaret was certain the two-bed would be hers. Turned out, his daughter inherited everything.
Around the same time, my grandmother passed away—she’d left me her cosy two-bed in Manchester. My husband and I started fixing it up, planning to move. But Margaret’s outburst ruined everything.
“I carried him in my arms while *she* couldn’t even be bothered to visit!” she screeched into the phone. “I cooked his meals, brought his medicine! And now she—that Natalie—gets to live it up in London while I rot in some damp one-bed! Where’s the justice?”
She brought this on herself—refused adoption, refused to live with us. Arguing was pointless. So she had to go back to that bleak, empty flat. No furniture, no warmth. Just bare walls.
My husband felt sorry for her. He decided to spruce the place up, even if just a little. I suggested giving her my grandmother’s furniture—we were replacing it anyway. It was clean, sturdy, though not brand new.
Margaret had managed to salvage some things from her late husband’s flat, mostly built-in appliances—no use taking those. And Natalie—sharp as a tack—wasn’t about to hand over anything valuable.
When we brought the furniture over, Margaret threw a scene right there in the hallway.
“What’s this? Dumping your attic junk on me? My husband’s dead, and now you treat me like rubbish! You buy new things for yourselves, but I get scrap? Disgraceful!”
Never mind that my nan’s sofa was barely four years old, barely used. Our new furniture was a gift from my parents. Why she thought we owed her a fully furnished flat—no idea. Worse, she demanded we take it all back. Started guilt-tripping: “You’ve got money for renovations, but none for your own mother?”
We turned and left. The furniture stayed in the corridor. I thought my husband would fetch it over the weekend. He didn’t. Margaret called a neighbour, dragged it all inside herself. Guess she realised throwing fits doesn’t fill an empty wallet.
So that’s how she lives. Bitter, surrounded by someone else’s furniture, clinging to pride. But pride doesn’t cook supper—or tuck you in at night.
