My in-laws had just gifted us a flat—and before the paint could dry, my mother-in-law had already decided who should *really* have it. Trust me, she nearly swindled us out of our home.
She’d always struck me as a formidable woman—sharp as a tack, brutally direct, but not *quite* evil. Until, of course, she tried to boot me and my husband out onto the street and hand our brand-new flat—courtesy of my parents—to her daughter and two grandchildren.
We’d been married two years, scraping by in rented digs because getting a mortgage during the pandemic felt like signing up for financial Russian roulette. We pinched pennies, took odd jobs, and never asked either set of parents for help—pride intact, thank you very much.
Just as the housing market perked up, my parents swooped in with a jaw-dropper: they’d sold my dad’s plot in the countryside and my mum’s dusty inheritance from some great-aunt, pooled the lot, and bought us a tidy two-bed in a decent London neighbourhood. Cue the happy tears. We were over the moon, slowly nesting like a pair of contented pigeons.
Enter Mother-in-Law for the grand tour. She sniffed around, gave the walls a sceptical once-over, and delivered her verdict: *“Well. It’ll do.”* Classic. She’d never been one for enthusiasm, especially when she hadn’t orchestrated the triumph herself.
We planned a housewarming after our long-overdue holiday—a seaside break to recharge before adulting properly. But disaster struck: our new sofa and armchairs were due for delivery three days *after* we’d left. With my parents off at an aunt’s anniversary bash, the only option was to hand the keys to Mother-in-Law. Sure, I expected her to snoop, but what harm could it do?
Oh, how naïve.
Ten days later, we returned to find my sister-in-law, her husband, and their two kids *fully moved in*. I swung open the door to find her bouncing a toddler in our hallway, the smell of frying wafting from the kitchen, and the telly blaring in the lounge. My heart nearly packed up.
My husband gaped. *“What on earth—?”*
His sister flushed. *“Mum said you’d agreed! That you’d rent somewhere else or stay with your parents. She said it was your idea!”*
Turns out, Mother-in-Law had spun a masterpiece. She’d swooped in, declaring: *“Your brother’s handing you the flat. No kids yet, no rush—you need it more. Schools nearby, shops, the works.”* Sister-in-law had tried calling, but signal was dodgy abroad. So, trusting Mum’s word, she’d hauled in nappies, toys, and saucepans, turning our haven into her own.
We stood there, shell-shocked. My husband rang his mother—straight to voicemail. I suggested, weakly, *“Let’s talk tonight. Calmly.”*
Sister-in-law was mortified. She hadn’t a clue she’d been duped. Apologies poured out, kids wailed—it was chaos with a side of guilt.
That evening, her husband arrived, and we hammered out a solution: we’d front them rent money, they’d have a week to find a place, and we’d crash with my parents. They were equally gobsmacked but welcomed us with open arms.
Days later, Mother-in-Law finally surfaced. *“Why?”* we demanded.
Her reply? A masterpiece of audacity: *“What’s the fuss? You got the flat for free! No kids—why hoard it? Family shares, or have you forgotten?”*
When we clarified that *no*, we hadn’t planned to gift our home, she accused us of heartless greed. *“Kicking out a struggling mother!”* she wailed. Drama, thy name is Mum.
We haven’t spoken since. Frankly, we’re fine with that.
Sister-in-law? We’re chummy. She apologised profusely—bless her, she’d been collateral damage. But Mother-in-Law? She showed her true colours. And trust me, they weren’t pretty.
Lesson learned: even the nearest and dearest will try it on if they think they’ll get away with it.
