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 everyone together. Children, grandchildren, daughters-in-law, all arrived, expecting a casual family tea. But no. She had gathered us to declare… who would receive what after her passing. Yes, exactly that. She wanted to distribute her assets in advance, as she put it, “to avoid quarrels later.” Yet, I doubt peace will remain in this family after tonight.
When Margaret Elizabeth said, “The flat in central London goes to my youngest, Edward,” my husband, William, nearly dropped his cup. Then she continued, “My eldest, William, will inherit the cottage in the countryside. Emily (that’s me) will receive the family jewellery and grandmother’s china. The rest—some get shares, others the microwave, or Grandad’s antique alarm clock.” Everyone at the table exchanged glances, baffled, to say the least. As for me, I felt my chest tighten at the unfairness of it all.
As guests began leaving, William, despite his confusion, approached his mother. Calmly, without accusation, he asked, “Mum, why did you divide things this way? It’s your right, of course. But was there no other way? Just help me understand—why?”
And this was her answer… It turned out that in their youth, their parents poured everything into William. They hoped he’d become a diplomat, live abroad, make them proud. They helped fund his lavish wedding, doted on their grandson when we were younger. In short, by her words, the eldest son had already received his share of care, attention, and support.
But Edward, the youngest, was always overlooked—work, obligations, William’s needs taking priority. So Edward grew up adrift: dropped out of uni, never built a career, married the first woman who’d have him. Now he lives with his wife and child in his in-laws’ flat. He stays home with the baby; she earns more. Owning a home seems impossible, a mortgage out of reach. Margaret Elizabeth said, “He’s struggled because we failed him. At least let him have the flat.”
Here’s the rub, though—William and I never exploited his parents. We took out a loan, bought our home, worked hard. We made it on our own. So why does it feel like we’re being punished for that?
I know such decisions are deeply personal. Still, I’m hurt—not for myself, but for William. He stays silent, doesn’t complain, but I see it stings. And now I don’t know how to face Margaret Elizabeth. After this “distribution,” I can barely bring myself to speak to her. When parents are gone, all that’s left are memories. And those can be warm… or they can leave a bitter taste.
Sometimes fairness isn’t measured in what we receive, but in how we choose to remember—and forgive.
