Yesterday, my mother-in-law gathered the whole family to announce who would get what. I know some might judge me, but my heart aches for my husband. Last night, his mother—Margaret Hodgkinson—decided to call a family meeting. Everyone turned up: children, grandchildren, daughters-in-law. It seemed like a typical family tea until, well, it wasn’t. She’d assembled us to declare… who’d inherit what after she passed. Yes, really. Handing out her belongings early, as she put it, “to avoid squabbles later.” Though, after that conversation, peace in the family seems unlikely.
When Margaret announced, “The flat in central London goes to my youngest, Oliver,” my husband, Charles, nearly dropped his teacup. Then she continued: “The eldest, Charles, gets the cottage in Cornwall. Emily—that’s me—inherits Grandma’s jewellery and china. The rest of you will split the shares, the microwave, and Grandad’s antique clock.” Around the table, everyone exchanged glances. To put it mildly, we were gobsmacked. And personally? I felt a knot of injustice tighten in my chest.
As guests started leaving, Charles, despite his bewilderment, approached his mother. Calmly, without accusation, he asked,
“Mum, why divide things this way? It’s your choice, of course. But was there no other option? Just explain—why?”
And here’s what she said. Turns out, in their younger years, his parents poured everything into Charles. They’d dreamed he’d become a diplomat, jet-setting abroad. They’d proudly funded his lavish wedding, babysat our son when we were starting out. In her words, the eldest had already had his share of care, attention, and support.
But Oliver, the younger one? They’d always been too busy—work, errands, Charles’s crises—and Oliver grew up a bit adrift. Dropped out of uni, never quite made it as a footballer, married the first girl who’d have him. Now he lives with his wife and toddler in her parents’ flat. He stays home with the baby; she works and earns more. Owning a place? Not on the horizon. A mortgage? Don’t even mention it. Margaret said, “He’s fragile because we failed him. At least let him have the flat.”
Here’s the rub, though—Charles and I aren’t leeching off anyone. We took out a mortgage, bought our own place, worked hard. We’ve done things properly. So why does it feel like we’re being punished for it?
I get it—these choices are personal. But it stings. Deeply. Not for me, for Charles. He’s quiet, doesn’t complain, but I see how it’s wounded him. And now? I’ve no idea how to face Margaret. After that “distribution,” I don’t even want to speak to her. When parents are gone, all that’s left are memories. And those can be sweet… or painfully bitter.
