Yesterday, my mother-in-law gathered the entire family to announce who would inherit what. I know some might judge me, but my heart aches for my husband. Last night, his mother—Margaret Elizabeth—called us all together. Everyone arrived: children, grandchildren, daughters-in-law. It seemed like an ordinary family gathering over tea. But no. She had called us to declare… who would get what after her passing. Yes, exactly that. She was dividing her possessions now, she said, “to avoid arguments later.” But after this, peace in the family is unlikely to survive.
When Margaret Elizabeth stated, “The flat in central London will go to my youngest, Oliver,” my husband William’s hands trembled. Then she continued, “As for my eldest, William, he’ll have the cottage in the countryside. Emily—that’s me—will receive the family jewellery and grandmother’s china. The rest of you will get shares, or the microwave, or grandfather’s antique clock.” Everyone around the table exchanged glances. “Stunned” would be an understatement. As for me, I felt something inside me twist at the unfairness of it all.
When the guests began to leave, William, despite his confusion, approached his mother. Calmly, without accusation, he asked,
“Mum, why did you decide to divide things this way? Not that I’m arguing—it’s your right. But it could have been different. Just help me understand—why?”
And this was her explanation. It turned out that in their youth, his parents had invested everything in William. They’d hoped he’d become a diplomat, live and work abroad. They’d been proud, helped arrange a grand wedding. Even looked after our son when we were younger. In short, according to her, the eldest had already received his share of care, attention, and support.
But Oliver, the youngest, they’d always overlooked. Too busy with work, obligations, or William’s needs. So Oliver had grown up lost—dropped out of university, never built a proper career, married the first girl who said yes. Now he lives in his wife’s parents’ flat with their child. He stays home with the baby while she works, earning more than he ever could. Owning a home? Out of reach. The idea of a mortgage terrifies them. Margaret said, “He’s weak because we never backed him. I want him to at least have a flat of his own.”
But here’s the thing—William and I aren’t leeching off his parents. We took out a mortgage, bought our own place, built our lives. We worked hard. So why does it feel like we’re being punished for it?
I know these choices are personal. Still, it stings—right to the core. Not for me, but for William. He says nothing, doesn’t complain, yet I see how wounded he is. And now, I don’t know how to face Margaret Elizabeth. After this “distribution,” I don’t even want to speak to her. When parents are gone, all that remains are memories. And they can be sweet… or they can turn bitter.
