My mother-in-law took offence at what she called a “handout” – she saw the old furniture as an insult.
I’ve been married for three years now. No children yet, though the idea of motherhood has been in the air for a while. All this time, my husband and I have been renting a flat in the heart of Bristol—not because we couldn’t afford anything else, but because his mother, Margaret Wilson, refused to let us stay in her one-bedroom flat, which had been sitting empty for years.
She raised my husband, Oliver, on her own. The flat was given to her by the textile factory where she’d worked for twenty years. Later, she remarried.
“My stepdad was a good man—he really was like a father to me,” Oliver once told me. “But he and Mum were always at each other’s throats. She complained constantly about money, like it was never enough.”
His stepfather had a daughter from his first marriage and wanted to legally adopt Oliver, but Margaret refused outright—afraid she’d lose her state benefits. When she moved in with her new husband, she just locked up her old flat. It hadn’t even been renovated—she saw no point in renting it out.
After our wedding, we asked if we could live there—humble, but ours. But she wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re about to divorce,” she snapped. “He’s stingy, lazy, good for nothing. I’m only with him for the security. And where am I supposed to go if you two move in?”
True enough, she filed for divorce soon after—but took her time moving out. Then disaster struck—her husband passed away. Margaret was convinced she’d get his two-bedroom flat, but the will left everything to his daughter.
Around the same time, my grandmother passed, leaving me her cosy two-bedroom place. My husband and I started redecorating, planning our move—until Margaret’s meltdown ruined everything.
“I was the one who looked after him while his daughter couldn’t even be bothered to visit!” she shrieked over the phone. “I cooked his meals, brought his medicine! And now that Emily gets to live it up in London with her inheritance, while I’m stuck in this damp little flat? Some justice!”
She’d brought it all on herself—refused the adoption, refused to live with us. Arguing was pointless. In the end, she had to move back into that empty, neglected flat—no furniture, no proper comforts, just bare walls.
Oliver felt sorry for her and decided to spruce the place up a little, at least give it a fresh coat of paint. I suggested bringing over my nan’s furniture—we were planning 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 of it was built-in appliances—no point taking those. And Emily, the stepdaughter, wasn’t about to hand over anything valuable.
When we delivered the furniture, Margaret made a scene right there in the hallway.
“What is this? Hand-me-downs from the attic? My husband’s gone, and now you treat me like rubbish! You buy new for yourselves and dump the junk on me! Disgraceful!”
Never mind that my nan’s sofa was only four years old and barely used. Our new furniture was a gift from my parents. Why she expected us to furnish her flat entirely was baffling. Worse, she demanded we take it all back and started guilt-tripping us—”You’ve got money for renovations, but not for your own mother!”
We turned around and left. The furniture stayed in the hallway. I figured Oliver would go back the next weekend and haul it away—but no. Margaret roped in a neighbour and dragged everything inside herself. Guess she realised pride doesn’t pay the bills—especially when the wallet’s empty.
So that’s how she lives—full of bitterness, furnished with someone else’s things, clinging to her pride. Though pride doesn’t put dinner on the table or tuck you in at night.
