My mother-in-law took offense at what she called a “handout,” deeming the old furniture an insult.
I’ve been married three years now. No children yet, though thoughts of motherhood have lingered in the air. All this time, my husband and I lived in a rented flat in the heart of Manchester—not because we couldn’t afford otherwise, but because my mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore, refused to let us stay in her long-vacant one-bedroom flat.
She raised Ilya—my husband—alone. The flat had been given to her by the textile mill where she’d worked twenty years. Later, she remarried.
“My stepfather was a good man, truly like a father to me,” my husband would say. “But he and Mum were forever quarrelling. She always complained about money, never satisfied, always wanting more.”
Her new husband had a daughter from a previous marriage. He wanted to adopt Ilya, but Margaret wouldn’t hear of it—afraid she’d lose her council benefits. When she moved in with him, she simply locked up her old flat. No renovations, no tenants—no point, she claimed.
After our wedding, we asked her to let us live there—humble, but our own. She refused outright.
“We’re divorcing any day now,” she declared. “He’s tight-fisted, lazy, good for nothing. I’m only with him for the security. Where will I go if you’ve already taken my place?”
True enough, she filed for divorce soon after. Yet she lingered in his home. Then misfortune struck—her husband passed. Margaret was certain the two-bedroom house would be hers. Instead, his daughter inherited everything.
Around the same time, my grandmother passed, leaving me her cosy little house. My husband and I began fixing it up, planning our move—until Margaret’s outburst.
“I cared for him when that girl couldn’t be bothered to visit! Cooked his meals, fetched his medicine! And now she gets a London flat while I’m left with a damp little box? What justice is that?” she shrieked over the phone.
She brought it on herself—refusing adoption, refusing to live with us. Arguing was pointless. Back she went to that empty, neglected flat—no furniture, no comforts, just bare walls.
My husband pitied her. He decided to spruce it up, at least a fresh coat of paint. I suggested we move my grandmother’s furniture there—we were replacing it anyway. It was clean, sturdy—if a little worn.
Margaret had managed to salvage some items from her late husband’s home, though most were built-in appliances. His daughter, shrewd as she was, kept anything of value.
When we delivered the furniture, Margaret made a scene.
“What is this? Rubbish from the attic? My husband’s gone, and now you treat me like I’m trash! You get new things while I’m left with cast-offs? Disgraceful!” she shouted in the hallway.
Never mind that my grandmother’s sofa was barely four years old, hardly used. Our new furniture was a gift from my parents. Why Margaret expected us to furnish her flat entirely was beyond me. Worse, she demanded we take it all back, accusing us of spending on our home but not caring for her.
We turned and left. The furniture stayed in the corridor. I assumed my husband would collect it over the weekend—but no. Margaret enlisted a neighbour to haul it inside, pride swallowed when faced with empty pockets.
So she lives still. Bitter, surrounded by second-hand things, clinging to pride. But pride, it turns out, doesn’t cook supper or tuck you in at night.
