**Diary Entry**
It’s been three years since I married Ilya—now called James—and still no children, though the idea has lingered in the back of my mind. All this time, we’ve been renting a flat in central Manchester, not because we couldn’t afford something better, but because my mother-in-law, Lydia Johnson, refused to let us move into her vacant one-bedroom flat—left untouched for years.
She raised James on her own. The council had given her that flat decades ago when she worked at the textile factory, where she’d spent twenty long years. Later, she remarried.
“My stepfather was decent, really took on the role of a dad,” James told me once. “But Mum and he were always rowing. Nothing was ever enough for her—always complaining about money.”
Her new husband had a daughter from his first marriage. He’d wanted to adopt James, but Lydia wouldn’t hear of it—worried she’d lose her benefits. When she moved in with him, she just locked up her old flat, leaving it untouched—no point renting it out, she said.
After our wedding, we asked if we could stay there. Just temporarily, somewhere of our own. But Lydia wouldn’t budge.
“We’ll be divorced soon,” she snapped. “He’s tight-fisted, lazy, useless. I’m only staying for the roof over my head. Where will I go if you two settle in there?”
True enough, she filed for divorce not long after. But she didn’t move out. Then came the blow—her husband passed away. Lydia was certain his two-bedroom flat would go to her. Instead, it went to his daughter.
Around the same time, my grandmother died, leaving me her cosy two-bed terrace. James and I started fixing it up, planning to move in. But then Lydia erupted.
“I took care of him while that daughter of his couldn’t be bothered to visit!” she shrieked over the phone. “I cooked his meals, brought his medicine! Now she gets to swan off to London in *his* flat, and I’m stuck in this mouldy one-bed? Some justice!”
She’d brought this on herself—refused adoption, refused to live with us. Arguing was pointless. So she went back to that grim little flat, bare walls and all.
James felt guilty. He wanted to make it liveable, at least freshen it up. I offered my grandmother’s furniture—still sturdy, clean, just not brand-new. We’d planned to replace ours anyway.
Lydia had managed to salvage some things from her late husband’s place, though most were fitted appliances, hardly worth taking. And his daughter? Sharp as a tack—she wasn’t parting with a thing.
When we brought the furniture over, Lydia exploded.
“What’s this? Dumping your rubbish on me? My husband’s gone, and you treat me like I’m trash! Brand-new for yourselves, but scraps for me? Disgraceful!” she howled, right there in the hallway.
Never mind that Gran’s sofa was barely four years old, hardly used. Our new furniture was a gift from my parents. Why she expected us to furnish her flat from scratch, I’ll never know. She demanded we take it all back, then threw in a dig about us having money for renovations but not for her.
We left. The furniture stayed in the corridor. I thought James would fetch it over the weekend—but no. Lydia called a neighbour, dragged it all inside herself. Guess she realised pride doesn’t pay the bills—or fill an empty flat.
So there she is. Resentful, surrounded by second-hand furniture, clinging to her pride. Funny thing about pride—it won’t cook your dinner or tuck you in at night.
