My Husband Refuses to Give His Inherited Flat to Our Daughter: Should We Let Her Move In, Sell It and Split the Money Among All Three Children, or Is There a Better Solution?

Author Wanda MirandaReading 3 minViews 3

My husbands aunt left him a small flat in her will, situated right in the heart of London. Thinking back, our family always had plenty of room; our own home had three bedrooms and was spacious enough for all of us. We had three children: the eldest, our daughter Alice, is now nineteen and studying at university, while our oldest son, William, is twelve, and little Edward is just five.

I remember clearly the disagreement that arose between my husband and me over that inherited flat. I suggested that Alice should move inshe was already a young woman, soon to graduate, and might soon want to marry and start her own life. Yet my husband thought that wasnt fair on our boys. He wanted to sell the place and split the money evenly among the children. That struck me as a rather foolish planit seemed to me the children wouldnt be able to purchase much with their share.

If we did as my husband wished, the money would simply be sitting in their bank accounts until the boys came of age. Alice, being oldest, might only afford a modest second-hand car with her portion, hardly a good investment for the future. I always believed in the old saying: a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. It seemed more sensible to at least secure a home for one child, and when the boys were older, perhaps thered be a way to sort out something for them.

My husband was convinced that granting the flat to Alice would ruin her relationship with her brothers, and they would never get along again. I, on the other hand, felt quite certain that our children would come to no harm; the boys were still too young to grasp the nuances of the situation. Surely, we had time to contemplate their futures.

We kept our thoughts to ourselves and hadnt breathed a word of our deliberations to Alice; we decided it was best to mull things over quietly. The flat itself was in a sorry state, needing major refurbishment before anyone could live in itat the time, we simply couldnt afford to do it up.

Now, looking back, I cant help but wonder who was rightme or my husband? Should I have pressed my case, or would it have been wiser to take his side? Or perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, someone else might see a path forward that neither of us could see, back then.

I’ll Always Be With You, Mum: A Heartfelt True Story That Will Make You Believe Grandma Val couldn’t wait for the evening to arrive. Her neighbour Natalie, a kind-hearted woman in her late forties, had told her something so extraordinary that her head was spinning. And to prove her point, Natalie had even invited her round in the evening to show her something special. It had all started with a simple chat that morning. Natalie popped in on her way to the shop: “Need me to pick anything up, Gran Val? I’m off to the corner shop for bits and pieces and fancy baking a pie.” Gran Val replied, “You’re such a good soul, Natalie. I’ve known you since you were a girl. It’s a shame you never settled down, always on your own. But you never seem sad, not like some.” “What’s there to complain about, Gran Val? I do have someone I love, I just can’t live with him yet. Why, I’ll tell you the story this evening over a cuppa. Bet you’ll be glad for me—and stop worrying!” Natalie brought Val some bread and sweets for tea, and soon they were settled with mugs in hand, Val itching with curiosity. Natalie smiled knowingly and began: “You remember, Gran Val, what happened to me all those years ago. I was nearly thirty. Had a lovely man, we were planning to marry. I wasn’t in love, but thought, well, he’s good. Why not have a family? He moved in, I got pregnant. At eight months, I had a little girl. She lived just two days before I lost her. I thought I’d never get through it, parted ways with my fiance. Couple of months later, I began to pull myself together. And then—something happened. In the night, I started hearing a baby crying. At first, I thought it was just my grief. But the crying kept coming. I went to the cot I’d set up—and there she was. My little girl. I picked her up, and she smiled, closed her eyes, and slept. And since then, she’s come to me almost every night. She lives in another world now, has a mum and dad there. But she still visits me. Sometimes, she brings little gifts—though they never last, fading away like spring snow…” Gran Val stared, hardly breathing, savouring the tale, and agreed to visit Natalie that very evening. In the quiet cheery kitchen, as the air shimmered, a gentle glowing girl appeared. “Hello, Mum! It’s been such a wonderful day, I brought you these flowers.” And she turned to Gran Val: “Oh, hello! Mum said you wanted to see me. I’m Marianne…” After she faded, Gran Val could only whisper, “Well, I never. It’s all true, after all. Your girl’s a beauty, Natalie. You’re luckier than you think, love. Thank you for opening my eyes—there’s more to life than we know.” As Gran Val left, the flowers on the table faded away, but Natalie’s heart was full of hope for the new day and her love for Arkie, the man in her life. Someday soon, she’d introduce her dearest loved ones—Marianne and Arkie. I’ll Always Be With You, Mum: A Heartfelt True Story That Will Make You Believe

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Don’t Go, Mum: A Family Story British wisdom says you can’t judge a book by its cover, but Margaret was sure she’d always understood people perfectly well! Her daughter, Emily, had married just a year ago. Margaret had dreamt Emily would meet a good man, start a family, and she, the proud grandmother, would once again be the matriarch of her growing brood—just as she’d always been. Mark, the son-in-law, was sharp and successful, something he made no secret of. But the newlyweds moved into Mark’s own flat and didn’t seem to need Margaret’s advice—something she’d never expected! He was obviously a bad influence on Emily! This wasn’t at all what Margaret had planned, and soon enough, Mark was getting on her last nerve. “Mum, you don’t understand, Mark was raised in care. He’s worked for everything, he’s a strong, kind soul,” Emily tried to explain. But Margaret only pursed her lips and found new reasons to criticise Mark. To her, he seemed entirely different from who he’d claimed to be to her daughter! And it was her motherly duty to open Emily’s eyes to this empty man, before it was too late! No education, not sociable, no interests! Spends his weekends slumped in front of the telly, “tired from work”, apparently! And Emily wanted to spend her whole life with such a person? Not if Margaret had anything to say about it. Emily would thank her in the end. And if they had children, what could this man possibly teach her, Margaret’s, future grandchildren!? Margaret was tremendously disappointed. Mark, feeling Margaret’s disapproval, started avoiding her too. They spoke less and less, and Margaret refused to visit their home. Emily’s father, an easy-going type aware of his wife’s temperament, decided to stay neutral. But then, late one evening, Emily called Margaret with a trembling voice: “Mum, I didn’t mention before, but I’m away overnight on business. Mark caught a chill on the building site, came home early from work, feeling rotten. I’ve tried phoning, but he’s not answering.” “Emily, why on earth are you telling me all this?” snapped Margaret. “You two are so independent, you don’t seem to care about your parents at all! Who knows how I’m feeling—seems no one’s bothered! And you ring in the middle of the night to tell me Mark’s sick? Are you serious?” “Mum,” Emily’s voice wavered—she did sound genuinely worried, “I’m just sad you don’t want to understand that we really love each other. You think Mark’s not worthy, not a real man—he’s not like that at all! How could you think I, your daughter, would fall for a bad person? Don’t you trust me?” Margaret was silent. “Mum, please—I know you still have a key to our place. Please, would you just check on him? I’m really worried something’s wrong. Please, Mum!” “All right, but only for you,” Margaret relented, waking her husband. No one answered their knock at Emily and Mark’s flat, so Margaret opened the door with her key. Inside was darkness, maybe he had gone out? “Maybe he’s not at home?” ventured her husband, but Margaret gave him a stern look as Emily’s worry began to infect her. In the lounge, she was horrified to find Mark collapsed oddly on the sofa, clearly burning with fever! The paramedics roused Mark: “Don’t worry—looks like your son’s caught a nasty bout after working through a cold. Does he work long hours?” the paramedic asked kindly. “He does, yes,” Margaret replied. “He’ll be all right, just keep an eye on his temperature and call if anything changes.” Mark slept on while Margaret sat in a chair, feeling bewildered at the bedside of the son-in-law she’d resented so much. He lay pale, his hair damp from fever. Suddenly, she was struck by compassion; asleep, he looked so much younger, his face softer than it had ever seemed. “Mum…” Mark whispered, half in a dream, reaching out for her hand, “Don’t go, Mum.” Margaret was taken aback, but she didn’t dare pull her hand away. She sat beside him until dawn. At first light, Emily rang again: “Mum, I’m so sorry—I’ll be home soon. No need to come back again, I think everything’s going to be all right.” “It has to be—you see, everything is fine,” smiled Margaret. “We’re waiting for you—everything’s just fine here.” ***** When her first grandson was born, Margaret instantly offered a helping hand. Mark, with gratitude, kissed her hand. “See, Emily—you said your mum wouldn’t want to help us!” And Margaret, proudly cradling baby Tom, wandered through the flat cooing to her grandson, “Well, Tommy, aren’t you a lucky lad—you’ve got the best mum, the best dad, and the best grandparents! You’re one blessed boy!” So, maybe there is some truth to the old saying—you can’t judge a person straight away. And, as Margaret learned, only love can help you truly understand.

04

You Just Don’t Realise What Happiness Is — Half a million quid? — Carina stared at the notification on her phone, rereading it three times before the numbers made any sense. — You took out a loan for half a million pounds? Dmitry was slouched on the sofa, glued to his smartphone, not bothering to look up. — Oh, that… Yeah, just a bit, for Mum’s new kitchen. You know her pipes leak, the floor’s warped, and the wallpaper’s peeling… — Wait. — Carina sank onto the armchair; her legs wouldn’t keep her up. — You took out a loan. Half a million. And gave it all to your mother. Without saying a word to me? Dmitry finally tore himself from his phone, genuine confusion on his face, as if she’d asked something utterly normal. — Carina, it’s Mum. She’s on her own, her pension’s rubbish. Who else is going to help? — You could have talked to me! — Carina found herself shouting, unable to stop. — Asked my opinion? At least warned me? — You’d just argue — Dmitry shrugged — and Mum needed it fast. Four years. Four years tolerating this woman: the nightly calls to check what Dima had for tea, the unannounced visits criticising the flat’s cleanliness, the family dinners where Carina always ended up at the far end of the table. — Don’t make a drama out of nothing, Dmitry said, calm as ever. — We’ll cope. Pay off quick, it’s not much. It’s family. Hot, angry tears spilled over as Carina wiped them away, smudging mascara down her cheeks. — Family? Am I—family? Or just an accessory? Remember when your mother decided we needed a new car and you sold ours without asking? When she dumped my stuff out of the guest room because she couldn’t “sleep among strangers’ clutter”? Or when, on my birthday, you both left to buy her a new fridge? — All small things — Dmitry waved a hand. — You’re tired, that’s all. You need a break. She looked at this man — tall, gentle features, the dimples she’d once found charming. Now he seemed little more than a thirty-year-old child, unable to cut the cord. — We’ll manage — he repeated, mantra-like. — Love conquers all. Carina got up and left for the bedroom. Her two big duffel bags were still on the top shelf from when she first moved in. She dragged them down, threw them onto the bed, and began opening drawers. Dmitry appeared in the doorway twenty minutes later, first bag crammed full. — What are you doing? Carina, don’t be silly. You’re not serious? She didn’t answer. Methodically stacked jumpers, jeans, underwear. Picked the jewellery box off the shelf — gifts from friends and family, nothing from him. — Where will you go? To your mum’s? She’s in Manchester! Zipped up the second bag. Checked her handbag — passport, cards, keys to her mum’s place, just in case. — Carina, say something! You can’t leave me. I love you! She held his gaze for a long moment. Then lifted the bags and walked out. …Next morning, Carina was in the registry office queue, divorce papers clutched tight. Rain drizzled outside, grey clouds sagged over rooftops, but inside she felt a strange peace. The decision was made. The first call came at half past two that night. Carina jolted awake on her friend Lena’s sofa, confused about where she was. — We need to talk — Dmitry’s breath was quick, words tumbling. — I understand now, I’ll change. Please, give me a chance. She hung up. Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. — Carina, I can’t live without you. You’re the meaning of my life. By morning, there were forty-three messages. Each one— long, overflowing with tearful confessions, promises, threats. “If you don’t come back, who knows what I’ll do.” “Mum says you’re just being silly.” “I’ll wait for you forever.” A week on, he started turning up outside her office. Carina would leave for lunch and spot his familiar shape by the coffee shack across the road. Heading for the Tube after work, she’d see him shadowing her from the other side of the street. — Just passing by — Dmitry would smile when challenged. — Missed you, wanted to see you. One evening at Lena’s, the doorbell buzzed. Carina, expecting the pizza delivery, didn’t look through the peephole. Standing there was Dmitry, clutching a bouquet of red roses. — One more chance — he whispered. — That’s all I ask. She closed the door, silent. He stood outside for two hours, until the neighbours threatened to call the police. She learned to live with it — like people live with a dull ache. Not reading messages, not answering unknown calls, not turning around in the street. Switched jobs to remote working in a new firm, moved to a quiet outer suburb where Dmitry would never “accidentally” show up. Divorce went through three months later. Carina exited the court holding the official papers, bursting into tears on the steps — not out of grief, but relief. At first, freedom was terrifying in its emptiness. She’d always checked every decision with someone, even though that someone did whatever he liked anyway. Now she could buy any yoghurt she wanted, not caring whether Yelena Viktorovna approved. Watch any film, without hearing “decent women don’t watch that sort of thing.” She could breathe. She signed up for English classes — an old dream, dismissed by Dmitry as “a waste of money.” Started yoga at dawn, before the city woke. Spent a weekend in Brighton, alone, wandering the lanes, tasting fudge, eating chips on the pier. Six months later, the calls stopped. The messages too. Carina waited for something else to go wrong, but as months passed she dared to relax. Landed a job at a vibrant marketing agency — bright office, young team, creative work. Life was looking up. …She met Andrew at the office Christmas party, coaxed there by her colleague Maddy. — This is our head developer — Maddy introduced a tall, bespectacled bloke. — Andrew, this is Carina from marketing. He shook her hand — firm, but gentle. His smile was effortless, not trying to impress. — You avoiding karaoke too? — he nodded toward the HR manager butchering “Wonderwall” on stage. — Saving my nerves — Carina grinned. They talked all evening — about books, travel, and the strangeness of life. Andrew listened more than he talked. Asked questions and waited for answers, never lecturing or instructing. When he heard she’d been divorced, he just nodded and changed the topic. …Within six months they’d moved in together, choosing a flat in town — small, sunny, high ceilings and a view of a tranquil courtyard. — Are you sure you like this place? — Carina asked as they checked it before signing the lease. — Shall we look at a few more? — Do you like it? — Andrew replied. — Yes, I love it. — Then let’s take it. Such little things — having her opinion heard — mattered more than any big talk of love. He proposed on their rooftop at sunset, sky streaked pink and gold. Opened a tiny box to reveal a sparkling diamond ring. — I’m rubbish at speeches — Andrew confessed. — But I want to wake up next to you every day. If you’re willing to put up with my snoring and terrible taste in coffee. Carina laughed through tears, and nodded. …That May evening began as usual. Andrew stayed late at the office — impossible deadline, some code gone haywire. Carina made pasta, humming with the radio, when the buzzer rang: sharp, urgent, demanding. She peered through the spyhole — and recoiled. Dmitry was outside. Pallid, tired eyes, crumpled shirt. Two years. Two years of silence, and now here he was. — Carina, open up! — his fist hammered the door. — I know you’re in! We need to talk! She snatched her phone, dialled Andrew. Engaged. — We love each other! — Dmitry shouted through the door. — You can’t be with someone else! It’s not right! The door shook — he was trying to force it. Carina pressed her back against it, braced her feet. — Go away! — she yelled. — I’ll call the police! — You’re my wife! — his voice shrilled. — You were mine, you will be! I waited two years for this! Two years! — We’re divorced! It’s over! — It’s never over! — another slam, Carina barely keeping the door shut. — I’ve changed! Mum says you just don’t realise what happiness is! Open up, let’s talk! She could see his face twisted in the spyhole — wild, possessed. Not the man she’d once shared a bed with. She dialled 999. — Dmitry! One call and the police are here. Leave. Now. He froze. A few moments of silence. Then swiftly turned and stomped downstairs. The front door slammed below. Carina slid to the floor, ears ringing. Half an hour later she managed to stand and call Andrew. The next day, she filed a police report. The community officer — an older gent with a grey moustache — took it all down, nodded. — We’ll sort it. Have a word. Whatever he said to Dmitry, Carina never discovered. But her ex never appeared or contacted her again. No calls, no messages, no shadow on her doorstep. …They held their wedding in early June, at a cosy country restaurant — twenty close friends, no fuss, no awkward in-laws demanding traditions. Carina stood opposite Andrew in a simple white dress, squeezing his warm hands in hers. Outside, birch trees whispered, the scent of flowers and fresh-cut grass drifted in. — Do you… — the officiant began. — I do — Carina cut in, making the guests laugh. Andrew slid the ring onto her finger — slim gold band, engraved inside. Three words: “Always with you.” She looked up at the man who would be her husband. Not a mummy’s boy, not a haunted stalker. Just a man who listened, respected, and loved. Ahead lay a life where her voice mattered…

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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 Husband Refuses to Give His Inherited Flat to Our Daughter: Should We Let Her Move In, Sell It and Split the Money Among All Three Children, or Is There a Better Solution?