The in-laws had just given us the flat—when my mother-in-law decided who should really have it. She almost cost us our home.
At first glance, Mother-in-law seemed firm but fair—sharp, blunt, not cruel. Until she wasn’t. Until she tried to uproot us, sending us into nowhere, while handing our new home—a gift from my parents—to her daughter and two grandchildren.
We married two years ago, scraping by in a rented flat—mortgages were out of the question. The pandemic had left everything unsteady. We saved where we could, worked whatever jobs came our way, never asking either set of parents for help. We wanted to stand on our own feet.
Then the market began to settle. We toyed with the idea of a mortgage—until my parents surprised us. They’d sold my father’s plot in the countryside and my mother’s old inheritance from her aunt. Combined the money, added a little more, and bought us a two-bed flat in a decent part of London. I wept. We were ecstatic. Slowly, we made it ours.
Mother-in-law came to inspect it almost immediately. She wandered through the rooms, eyeing the walls, nodding in silence. Her only comment:
“Not bad.”
We didn’t mind. She was always reserved, especially when things happened without her say.
We decided to hold the housewarming after our holiday. We’d dreamed of a seaside break—somewhere to unwind, reset, start fresh. Booked a last-minute trip to Brighton, but a problem arose: the sofa and armchairs we’d ordered were due three days after we left.
My parents were at my aunt’s anniversary in Manchester, so the only option was to leave the keys with Mother-in-law and ask her to accept the delivery. I knew she’d nose around—open cupboards, linger in corridors. But there was nothing to hide.
How wrong I was.
When we returned ten days later, my sister-in-law, her husband, and their two kids were living in our flat. I opened the door—there she stood in the hallway, the youngest in her arms. The smell of frying filled the air, the telly blared from the living room. My heart nearly stopped.
My husband demanded,
“What’s going on?”
His sister flushed, flustered.
“Mum said you’d agreed to let us move in! That you’d be renting somewhere else or staying with your parents. She said _you_ offered!”
The truth was simple—and horrifying. Mother-in-law had announced to her daughter,
“We’ve sorted it with your brother. He’s letting you have the flat. They don’t have kids—no rush for them. But you? You need it. School’s nearby, work’s close.”
Sister-in-law had tried ringing, but our signal had been patchy by the coast. She trusted her mother, packed up, and moved in—toys spread, pans stacked, laundry folded. In days, she’d turned our home into hers.
We stood, stunned. My husband rang his mother—she didn’t pick up. I suggested,
“Let’s talk tonight. Calmly. We’ll sort it.”
Sister-in-law was devastated. She hadn’t known it was all a lie. Apologised over and over. The kids were restless, crying. It was clear—she’d been played too.
Her husband arrived that evening, and we worked out a plan. They had nowhere to go—no savings for rent. We agreed:
“We’ll lend you money for a deposit. Stay one week to find a place. We’ll stay with my parents, help you move.”
And so we did. My parents were horrified but welcomed us warmly.
Days later, Mother-in-law finally answered the phone. We asked,
“Why?”
Her reply was shameless.
“What’s the harm? You got the flat for free. Couldn’t you share? No kids of your own, and she’s got two! Would’ve been decent of you. I thought you were family.”
When we told her the flat was never hers to give, she called us cruel, selfish. Said we’d thrown out a “poor mother with two children.”
She hasn’t spoken to us since. And honestly? We’re not eager to fix that.
We’re still on good terms with my sister-in-law. She apologised again and again—she wasn’t the one to blame. But Mother-in-law? She showed her true colours. And we learned: never trust her again.
That whole ordeal taught us something sharp—even those closest can betray you, if they think they’ll get away with it.
