My mother-in-law took offense at what she called a “handout”—she saw the old furniture as an insult.
I’ve been married for three years now. No kids yet, though baby talk has been floating around for ages. All this time, my husband and I lived in a rented flat in central London—not because we couldn’t afford anything else, but because my mother-in-law, Margaret Thompson, refused to let us move into her old one-bedroom flat, even though it’d been sitting empty for years.
She raised my husband, Oliver, on her own. The flat was given to her by the textile factory where she worked for twenty years. Later, she remarried.
“My stepdad was a decent bloke, really stepped up as a father figure,” Oliver used to say. “But Mum was always rowing with him—never had enough money, never satisfied with anything.”
Her new husband had a daughter from a previous marriage. He wanted to adopt Oliver, but Margaret refused—she was scared of losing her benefits. When she moved in with her new husband, she just locked up her old flat and left it. No renovations, no renting it out—couldn’t be bothered, apparently.
After we got married, we asked if we could live there—nothing fancy, just a place of our own. But she wouldn’t hear of it.
“We’re about to divorce,” she snapped. “He’s tight-fisted, lazy, useless. I’m only with him for the perks. And where will I go if you’re already in my flat?”
Sure enough, she filed for divorce soon after—but she didn’t rush to move out. Then disaster struck—her husband passed away. Margaret was certain she’d inherit his two-bedroom flat, but it turned out everything went to his daughter.
At the same time, my nan passed away, leaving me her cosy little two-bed. We started fixing it up, planning our move—until Margaret had a meltdown.
“I was the one who nursed him while his daughter couldn’t even be bothered to visit! I cooked his meals, brought his medicine! And now that girl—what’s her name, Emily?—gets to swan about in a London flat while I’m stuck in a damp shoebox! Where’s the justice?” she screeched over the phone.
She brought it all on herself—refusing the adoption, refusing to let us live with her. Arguing was pointless. So she had to go back to that empty, neglected flat—bare walls, no furniture, nothing.
Oliver felt sorry for her and decided to spruce the place up a bit, at least freshen the paint. I suggested moving in some of my nan’s furniture—we were planning to replace it anyway. It wasn’t brand new, but it was clean and sturdy.
Margaret had taken a few bits from her late husband’s place, but mostly fitted appliances that weren’t worth removing. And his daughter—smart cookie—wasn’t handing over anything valuable.
When we delivered the furniture, Margaret threw a fit.
“What’s this? Dumping your rubbish on me? My husband’s dead, and you treat me like trash! Buying new things for yourselves and palming off junk on me? Disgraceful!” she shrieked right there in the hallway.
Never mind that my nan’s sofa was only four years old and barely used. Or that my parents helped buy our new furniture. Why she expected us to furnish her entire flat is beyond me. Not only that—she demanded we take it all back. Started whinging about how we had money for renovations but not for her.
We turned around and left. Oliver thought he’d come back that weekend and haul everything away. Didn’t happen. Margaret got a neighbour to help drag it all inside—guess she realised she couldn’t afford to be picky when her pockets were empty.
So there she is. Full of grudges, surrounded by second-hand furniture, but clinging to her pride. Pity pride doesn’t cook dinner or tuck you in at night.
