Yesterday, my mother-in-law gathered the whole family to announce who would inherit what.
I know some might judge me, but my heart aches for my husband. Last evening, his mother—Margaret Elizabeth—called a family meeting. Everyone came: children, grandchildren, daughters-in-law. It seemed like nothing more than an ordinary tea gathering. But no. She had summoned them to declare… who would receive what after her passing. Yes, exactly that. She divided her estate in advance, insisting it would “prevent quarrels later.” Yet after that conversation, peace in this family may well be shattered.
When Margaret Elizabeth announced, “The flat in central London will go to the youngest—Oliver,” my husband, William, clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened. Then she continued, “As for my eldest, William, he shall have the cottage in the Cotswolds. Emily (that’s me) will inherit the family heirlooms and Grandmother’s china. The rest—some get shares, others the microwave, Grandad’s antique pocket watch.” Around the table, uneasy glances were exchanged. To say we were stunned would be an understatement. Inside, I felt something twist—raw, bitter injustice.
As guests began to leave, William, despite his bewilderment, approached his mother. Calmly, without accusation, he asked, “Mum, why did you choose to split things this way? It’s your right—I’m not arguing. But surely another way would’ve been fairer. Just tell me—why?”
And here’s what she said.
Turns out, in their youth, his parents had poured everything into William. They’d hoped he’d become a diplomat, live abroad. They’d been proud, funded his lavish wedding. Even helped raise our son when we were young. In short, as Margaret put it, her eldest had already received his share of care, attention, and support.
But Oliver, the youngest? They’d always overlooked him. Work, obligations, William’s crises—always something. So Oliver grew up adrift. Dropped out of university, never pursued a career, married the first girl who’d have him. Now, he lives with his wife and child in her parents’ cramped flat. He’s a stay-at-home father; she works long hours, earning more. Their own home? A distant dream. A mortgage? Unthinkable. Margaret said, “He’s struggled because we failed him. At least let him have the flat.”
But here’s the rub—we never leeched off his parents. William and I took out loans, bought our home, worked tirelessly. We built our lives. So why does it now feel like we’re being penalised for it?
I know these choices are personal. Yet the sting remains—deep, unshakable. Not for me, but for William. He bears it silently, but I see it in his eyes. And I don’t know how we face Margaret Elizabeth now. After this “distribution,” I can barely look at her. When parents are gone, all that’s left are memories. They can be warm… or they can fester.
