Yesterday, my mother-in-law gathered the whole family to announce who’d get what. And let me tell you, it wasn’t exactly a picnic in the park.
I know some might judge me, but my heart aches for my husband. Last night, his mother—Margaret Evans—called us all together. Kids, grandkids, in-laws, the lot. At first, it seemed like another cosy family gathering with tea and biscuits. Oh, how wrong we were. She’d summoned us to reveal… who’d inherit what after she passed. Yes, really. She wanted to dish it all out now to “avoid arguments later.” Spoiler: peace in the family is now a distant memory.
When Margaret declared, “The flat in Central London goes to my youngest—Oliver,” my husband William’s hands actually trembled. Then she carried on: “William, the eldest, gets the cottage in Cornwall. Emily (that’s me) inherits Grandma’s jewellery and china. The rest of you—those shares, the microwave, Grandad’s antique clock—take your pick.” The room fell into a silence so thick you could’ve spread it on toast. Let’s just say, we were all a tad gobsmacked. And me? I felt a proper twinge of injustice, like someone had nicked the last slice of cake.
As everyone shuffled out, William, bless him, kept his cool and asked his mum—no accusations, just curiosity:
“Mum, why split things this way? Not that I’m arguing—it’s your call. But was there a reason? Just help me understand.”
Turns out, when they were younger, the family poured everything into William. They’d pinned their hopes on him becoming a diplomat, jetting off to glamorous postings. Paid for his posh wedding, babysat our kids when we were skint. In her words, the eldest had already had his “fair share of the pudding.”
But Oliver? Poor Ollie was always an afterthought. Work, William’s dramas—something always came up. So he grew up a bit adrift. Dropped out of uni, never quite found his footing, married the first girl who’d have him. Now he’s at home with the baby while his wife brings in the bacon, living in her parents’ flat. A mortgage? Might as well wish for a unicorn. Margaret said, “He’s struggled because we didn’t help him then. At least let him have the flat.”
Here’s the rub, though—William and I aren’t exactly lounging about waiting for handouts. We scrimped, saved, took out a mortgage, built our own life. We worked for it. So why does it feel like we’re being punished for not needing help?
I get it—her money, her rules. But it stings. Not for me, for William. He’s quiet about it, but I see the hurt. And now? No clue how to face Margaret. After that little “show and tell,” I’d rather chat with a brick wall. When parents are gone, all that’s left are the memories. And they can be sweet… or they can leave a right bitter taste.
