My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded We Give Them Our Flat—But When I Refused, Things Took a Shocking Turn

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 4

My brothers pregnant wife demanded that we give them our flat.

Ive been married for a decade now. My husband and I live in a two-bedroom flat in Manchester. Were still paying off the mortgage. We haven’t worked up the courage to start a family yetwe want to be completely stable first. My brother is also married. They live in a cramped studio near Birmingham. My brother works two full-time jobs and does the odd bit of work on the side. His wife, however, doesnt work at all. She seems determined to produce children at an alarming ratethey already have three, shes pregnant with a fourth, and apparently, a fifth is in the pipeline.

Apart from the children, theyve also got loans for countless household appliances. My husband and I often lend them a hand, sometimes with cash, other times buying groceries. Occasionally, my brothers wife has the nerve to make demands outright instead of asking politely.

Thats when we have to remind her of reality and say no. Both she and my brother take offence, but a few weeks later theyre back, asking for something new.

Seeing as you and your husband dont have children, and were about to have our fourth, you ought to let us have your flat, she announced the other day.

And where exactly are we supposed to go? Your cramped studio? I asked, utterly baffled by her cheek.

No, well take in some tenants. You lot can go and rent a place for yourselves, she insisted confidently. Then she pressed, So, when will you be moving out?

You know what, perhaps you should seek some professional help. Get out of my flat, I told her.

Well, Ill just lose this baby thenyour fault, she snapped before storming out.

And thats what happenedlater that very same day. She did it in secret. She was just three months along.

At two in the morning, my brother pounded on our door, hurling accusations at me. My husband immediately calmed him down and asked what had happened. I told him everything. My husband dunked my brothers head into cold water several times until he calmed down, then ushered him out of our flat. Since that night, I no longer have a brother.

Staying Connected Every morning, Mrs Margaret Hope followed the same routine: kettle on the hob, two spoonfuls of tea into her old bulbous teapot—the very one she’d treasured since her children were small and the world felt full of endless tomorrows. While the water warmed, she’d switch on the kitchen radio and listen to the news with half an ear; the voices of the presenters felt more familiar than most faces these days. Above the table, a clock with golden hands ticked on diligently. But the old landline phone below it grew quieter each month. Once, it would crackle every evening as friends called to discuss the soaps or blood pressure—now, those friends were more often unwell, drifting away to live with family in far-off towns, or quietly leaving forever. The phone, heavy and reassuring in her palm, stood in the corner. Sometimes, Margaret stroked it in passing, as if checking whether this way of reaching out to the world still lived. Her children’s calls came through mobiles now—well, she assumed they did, for whenever they visited, their phones never left their hands. Her son would pause mid-conversation, eyes fixed on the screen, mutter, ‘One moment,’ and begin tapping away. Her granddaughter, a thin girl with a long ponytail, barely let go of her own device. All their lives, it seemed, were there. All Margaret had was an old push-button mobile, bought after her first spell in hospital when, as her son said, ‘We need to know you’re always reachable.’ It sat in its fraying case on the hall shelf, sometimes forgotten and out of charge, sometimes buried under receipts and handkerchiefs at the bottom of her bag. It rang rarely, and when it did, she’d often fumble and miss the call—chiding herself for being too slow. She turned seventy-five that day. The number felt alien, as if it belonged to someone else. Inside, she still felt sixty-five. Perhaps sixty. But ID cards don’t lie. Her morning followed its usual patterns: tea, radio, the gentle stretches her GP had shown her, then a simple salad and the cottage pie she’d baked the night before. The children had promised to come by two. She still found it odd that birthdays were now arranged not over the phone, but in some ‘family chat.’ Her son said, ‘Tanya and I organise everything in our group chat. I’ll show you one day.’ But he never did. To Margaret, the word ‘chat’ sounded like another world, one where people lived inside little windows and spoke in typed letters. At two they all arrived. First her grandson Jamie tumbled into the hallway with his rucksack and headphones, then her granddaughter Lucy slipped in quietly, followed by her son and his wife, arms heavy with shopping bags. Suddenly, the flat was full of bustle and perfume, bakery scents and that fresh, restless tang she could never quite place. ‘Happy birthday, Mum,’ her son said, hugging her briskly, almost as if eager to move on. The gifts piled onto the table, the flowers arranged in a vase. Lucy instantly asked for the WiFi password. Her son, frowning, dug the paper from his wallet and dictated a string of letters and numbers that made Margaret’s mind buzz. ‘Gran, why aren’t you ever on the group chat?’ Jamie asked, heading for the kitchen. ‘That’s where everything happens.’ She waved a hand. ‘Oh, I don’t need all that. This old phone is plenty for me.’ Her daughter-in-law broke in awkwardly, ‘Actually, that’s why… well, we’ve bought you something.’ She exchanged a glance with her husband. He handed Margaret a smooth white box. She felt a pang of worry—she guessed what was inside. ‘A smartphone,’ he announced, as if giving a diagnosis. ‘Not top of the range, but a decent one. Camera, internet—the lot.’ ‘What on earth for?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘So we can have video calls, Mum,’ her daughter-in-law replied, her tone bright and automatic. ‘We put family news and photos in the chat, and everything’s online now—doctors, bills, appointments. You complained about NHS queues, remember?’ ‘I’ll manage the old way—’ she started, but saw her son sigh, carefully masking his impatience. ‘It’ll put our minds at rest. If you need us, you can reach us straight away. No more hunting for the green button.’ He smiled hopefully, but she felt the sting all the same. The green button, as if she was useless now. ‘All right,’ she relented, eyes on the box. ‘If it means that much to you.’ They opened it together, like sharing out presents at a children’s party. Only now the children were grown, and she sat in their midst feeling less a guest of honour than a student on her first day. Out came the sleek black rectangle—cold, slippery, buttonless. ‘Everything’s touch-screen,’ Jamie explained. ‘You just swipe—like this.’ His finger flicked across the glass. The screen lit up with bright icons. Margaret startled, half-expecting the thing to demand some secret code, a password, or start barking out commands she’d never understand. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucy said gently. ‘We’ll set it all up. Just… don’t press anything by yourself yet, OK?’ Oddly, that hurt the most—like being told not to touch Grandma’s best vase. After lunch, the whole family sat with her in the lounge. Her son sat beside her on the sofa, placing the phone on her lap. ‘Now, see here,’ he began, far too quickly, demonstrating buttons and swipes and passwords, until the words jumbled together like a foreign tongue. ‘Wait, one at a time,’ she pleaded, ‘or I’ll forget.’ ‘You’ll pick it up. It’s easy, you’ll see,’ he said, waving off her worries. She nodded, though she knew it would take time—time to accept that the world now lived in these little rectangles, and somehow, she had to fit inside one too. By evening, numbers for the family, her friend Mrs Valentine from down the hall, and the local GP were all stored in the phone. Her son installed a messenger, set up an account and added her to the family group. He enlarged the font so she wouldn’t need to squint. ‘This is the chat. Here’s how to write. If you don’t want to type, you can send a voice message—just hold down the microphone.’ Cautious, her hands trembling, she hit the wrong keys—‘thakn you’ instead of ‘thank you.’ They all laughed—she tried to hide her shame. After they left, the flat was quiet again. On the table: crumbs of the pie, wilting flowers, the phone’s white box. The device itself lay face down. Margaret turned it over, pressing the button as shown. The screen lit up with a photo—her whole family, last New Year. She swiped, looking at the unfamiliar icons. Remember, don’t press anything you shouldn’t. She left the mobile on the table and did the washing up. Let it get used to living here. The next morning, she woke earlier. There was the phone: unfamiliar, but less frightening. She brewed her tea, sat at the table, summoned her courage, and switched it on. The New Year’s photo greeted her again. She poked at the little green phone—the only icon she recognised. A list of contacts appeared. She selected her son. The phone hummed and swirled. ‘Hello?’ her son answered, sounding surprised. ‘Everything all right, Mum?’ ‘Just checking the thing works,’ she replied, feeling a quiet pride. She’d managed on her own. ‘Told you you’d get it. Well done! Next time use the messenger though, it’s cheaper.’ She laughed, heart pounding. She hung up—all by herself. Soon after, the first message arrived in the family chat: ‘Gran, how are you?’ from Lucy. She hesitated, then typed—slowly, painstakingly—‘All good. Having tea,’ and sent it, misspellings and all. ‘Wow, did you write that yourself?!’ came Lucy’s reply, followed by a heart emoji. Margaret caught herself grinning: her words, on the family’s screen at last. When neighbour Mrs Valentine popped in later, she chuckled, ‘So they’ve got you one of those clever phones, eh?’ ‘A smartphone,’ Margaret replied, the word still odd in her mouth, but not unwelcome. ‘Is it biting yet?’ sniffed Valentine. ‘It mostly just beeps, and there aren’t any buttons.’ ‘My grandson swears I need one, but I’m too old for all that online nonsense.’ The word ‘too old’ stung. Margaret used to feel it herself. But now, the phone on her table suggested otherwise—it wasn’t too late to try. A few days on, her son rang: ‘I booked your GP appointment online, Mum. It’s all through Services Online now. You can do it too—I wrote the password down for you.’ She turned to the slip of paper, feeling like it was a prescription—understandable in theory, impossible in practice. But she tried. She opened the browser, typed the address in. It was slow, frustrating—passwords, missed keys, blank screens. She nearly gave up, picking up the landline to confess defeat. ‘I can’t work your passwords. This is just cruel.’ ‘Don’t worry, I’ll show you again. Jamie’s better at it anyway.’ Jamie visited that evening. He explained faster than she could follow, but patiently, showing her how to check appointments and send messages to her doctor. ‘If you mess it up, it’s no disaster—you start over,’ he reassured. For him, perhaps, it was simple. For her, every click and tap felt like crossing a minefield—but after he left, she practised. Because now, the world required her to. A week later, trouble struck—she couldn’t find her GP appointment. Maybe she’d clicked the wrong thing before. Panic threatened, but she steeled herself, found the right page, and booked a slot herself. She even managed to send a voice note to her GP via messenger, explaining the problem, just as Jamie had shown her: ‘Hello, Doctor—I’m having trouble with my blood pressure. I’ve booked for Friday morning. Please keep an eye out for me.’ Within minutes, a reply: ‘I’ve got you on my list. Call if you feel worse.’ And it was all done—without calling in anyone for help. That night, she wrote in the family chat: ‘Booked my GP online! On my own!’ The replies came fast: ‘You’re amazing, Gran!’ ‘So proud of you, Mum.’ ‘See, I told you it’d work!’ With every answer, Margaret felt the thread growing stronger. She might not know the memes, nor fire off emojis at speed, but she could reach them when it mattered. There was a connection now—a lifeline. Later that week, she even dared send a kitchen snapshot to the chat: ‘My tomatoes are coming along,’ she typed. The photos poured in—Lucy’s messy revision notes, her daughter-in-law’s salad, her son’s ‘Office selfie: whose day is more exciting, yours or mine?’ For the first time in years, the kitchen was full of voices, laughter, and gentle arguments, even though everyone was elsewhere. Sometimes, everything went wrong—she’d send voice notes to the wrong chat or type public questions she meant for private eyes. But the responses were always gentle. She was learning, and everyone knew it. Gradually, she used the old landline less and less. She realised she could check the bus times herself, look up recipes, send a question or a photo and hear back in minutes. The world hadn’t passed her by. She hadn’t vanished behind the window pane. One quiet evening, reading family chat on her phone—their photos and jokes, her updates about tea and tomatoes—Margaret smiled. The house was still, but not empty. With a gentle tap, she answered her granddaughter: ‘Call me after your test, I’ll always listen.’ She turned out the kitchen light, glanced back at the phone resting on the table, and knew—as long as she wanted, she could reach out, and someone would answer. And for now, that was enough.

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A Parent’s Heart: A Story Thank You for Your Support, Likes, Kindness, Feedback on My Stories, Subscriptions, and a Huge Thanks from Me and My Five Lovely Cats for All Your Generous Donations. Please Share Your Favourite Stories on Social Media—It’s Always a Joy for the Author! “Why are you looking so glum this morning? Not even a smile. Come on, let’s have breakfast.” Her husband walked into the kitchen with a sleepy stretch—finally, a Sunday morning. The bacon and eggs were sizzling on the hob, while his wife poured tea. She plonked more than half the eggs onto his plate and handed him some bread— “Eat up, go on!” “What did I do wrong, Natasha?” Arkady asked gently. “We both did wrong, raising the kids like we did,” Natasha replied, sitting down beside him but barely touching her own food. “Our daughter and son are grown now. We gave up so much as we raised them—those times were tough. We always supported them, but who supports us, even with just a kind word? They’ve always got problems, always bored or short of money. Both Sveta and Dima, always moaning.” “What makes you say that?” Arkady had just finished his eggs, happily buttering fresh bread and spooning on some jam. “It’s different for you—they come to me with it all, you know, their mum. Dima wanted to go bowling with his family yesterday and wanted an advance until payday. I got cross and didn’t give it to him. Oh, he was so put out. And Sveta called just before—her singing career’s going nowhere, so she’s in a mood too. She loves singing—great, sing for your soul, but you’ve got to work as well! She wants to make a living out of it, but it’s not happening. Not everyone can do that, and it’s time she realised. She needs a proper job! Even as children they were close, now they barely speak to each other!” Natasha pushed away her now-cold eggs and sipped her tea. “Don’t get so upset, love, it’ll work out. We were young once, remember?” Arkady tried to comfort her, but she only grew more agitated. “Oh, Arkasha, you remember! We lived within our means and found joy in the little things! When Dima was born—it was pure happiness. My friend gave me a pram and cot, my sister handed down vests, nappies, onesies from her eldest—hand-me-downs but good as new because kids grow so fast. We were happy! And when we bought our little Fiat, we felt on top of the world. Built a little shed next to the house, it made us feel rich! But for our lot, if they haven’t been abroad, life’s not worth living—what is that? We never taught them that!” “These are different times, Natasha, there are so many temptations. They’re young. Wait—they’ll understand one day.” “Let’s hope it’s not too late by then. Chasing riches and life’s flying by. I look at myself in the mirror and wonder, is that really me—a grandmother now? And you, you’re a granddad…” They were interrupted by the phone—it was their son, Dima. “Well, here we go again,” Natasha said, picking up the phone. As she listened, her eyes grew wide and she jumped up. “Arkady, get dressed quick—Dima’s in hospital! His neighbour from the ward called.” “What happened?” Arkady was on his feet, rapidly pulling on his clothes. “I’m not sure exactly. He cut his hand with an angle grinder—blade shattered and sliced it. They’re trying to save the hand. Hopefully everything will be all right. Oh, please let it be all right! Come on, let’s go.” They threw on their coats—a bit older now but far from old, two deeply worried parents—and set off, thoughts of everything else forgotten, hurrying to the hospital to see their son… On the way, Svetlana called: “Mum, can I pop round at lunchtime?” “Of course, love, we’ll probably be back by then,” Natasha called, breathless, racing to the bus stop after Arkady. At the hospital, they were quickly reassured—Dima’s hand had been saved, though they couldn’t see him just yet. “I’m not leaving until I see him,” Natasha said firmly, parking herself in the waiting area, with Arkady by her side. Suddenly Svetlana burst into the hospital, dashing over to them. “Mum, why do you look so worried? It’s fine now. Dima was doing a repair job yesterday—something wouldn’t come off, so he was cutting bolts, slipped and sliced his hand. He’s conscious, stitches done, fingers moving. Mum, don’t look so grim, he’ll be okay!” “How do you know?” Natasha managed. “We’re always in touch, Mum—me, Dima, and his wife Lena too. We help each other out, what’s the problem?” “But—we thought you barely spoke to each other, you never told us…” Arkady explained. “Dad, you two are so strong, so sorted, like nothing ever fazes you. We don’t want to worry you unnecessarily,” Sveta smiled. “Honestly, you both look so young! We just want you to enjoy life for yourselves now.” “Well that’s a twist—I thought you didn’t care about us anymore,” Natasha smiled back. “Oh Mum, your generation, you’re all so resilient. We try to be like you, we really do, Dad. We’re just not always as good at it, but we try, you know?” Finally, the nurse let them see Dima for a minute. Natasha nearly broke down, but Dima was calm. “Mum, it’s all over now, honestly, don’t worry. Dad, remember when you got stung in the garage and nearly died in hospital? Life happens! When I’m out, come over for New Year’s, we haven’t all got together in ages. Sveta wants to introduce everyone to her boyfriend too—she hasn’t told you yet?” Natasha and Arkady walked home, deciding to enjoy the fresh air. Not Old—But Not Young Either: Parents on the Road Ah, a parent’s heart—it always aches for their children. You look at other people’s children and wish yours could be better, live more rightly, listen to you more. But our children have their own path, whatever it may be… And they’re good kids—after all, they’re ours.

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📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic

My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded We Give Them Our Flat—But When I Refused, Things Took a Shocking Turn