My mother-in-law took offence at what she called a “handout”: she saw our old furniture as an insult.
I’ve been married for three years now. We haven’t started a family yet, though the thought has often crossed our minds. All this time, my husband and I have lived in a rented flat in the heart of London—not because we couldn’t afford a place of our own, but because my mother-in-law, Lydia Thompson, refused to let us move into her empty one-bedroom flat, which had stood unused for years.
She raised my husband, Oliver, on her own. The council had given her the flat years ago, after her twenty years of service at a textile factory. Later, she married again.
“My stepfather was a good man—he truly was like a father to me,” Oliver once told me. “But he and Mum were always rowing. She complained endlessly about money, as if nothing was ever enough.”
Her second husband had a daughter from his first marriage. He wanted to adopt Oliver, but Lydia wouldn’t hear of it—afraid of losing her benefits. When she moved in with her new husband, she simply locked up her old flat and left it untouched. No renovations, no tenants. “No point,” she’d said.
After our wedding, we asked if we could live there—a humble start, but our own place. Lydia wouldn’t entertain the idea.
“We’ll be divorcing soon,” she snapped. “He’s tight-fisted, lazy, good for nothing. I’m only with him for convenience. Once we’re divorced, where will I go if you’re already settled in my flat?”
True enough, she filed for divorce soon after. But she didn’t rush to move out. Then misfortune struck—her husband passed away. Lydia was certain his two-bedroom house would be hers. But the will left everything to his daughter.
Around the same time, my grandmother died, leaving me her cosy little house—she’d signed it over to me years before. Oliver and I began renovating, making plans to move in. But Lydia’s hysterics threw everything off course.
“I cared for him when his own daughter couldn’t be bothered to visit! Cooked his meals, fetched his medicine. And now that Natasha gets to live it up in Manchester with his inheritance, while I’m stuck in this damp little flat? Where’s the justice?” she shrieked down the phone.
She’d brought it all on herself—refused the adoption, turned us away when we offered to live together. Arguing was pointless. So back she went to that empty, neglected flat. No furniture, no comforts. Bare walls.
Oliver felt sorry for her. He decided to fix the place up, at least give it a fresh coat of paint. I suggested we move in my grandmother’s furniture—we’d planned to replace it anyway. It was clean, sturdy—just not brand new.
Lydia had taken a few things from her late husband’s house, but most were built-in appliances not worth removing. And Natasha, sharp as a tack, wasn’t parting with anything of value.
When we delivered the furniture, Lydia made a scene right there in the hallway.
“What’s this? Dumping your cast-offs on me? My husband’s dead, and now you treat me like rubbish! You’ve bought all new things for yourselves, and I get your junk? Disgraceful!”
Never mind that Gran’s sofa was barely four years old, hardly used. Our new furniture was a gift from my parents. Why Lydia expected us to furnish her entire flat was beyond me. Worse, she demanded we take it all back. Started griping about how we had money for renovations but none for her.
We turned and left. The furniture stayed in the corridor. I thought Oliver would return the next weekend and haul it all away. But no. Lydia enlisted a neighbour’s help and dragged it inside herself. Pride, I suppose, had its limits—especially with empty pockets.
And so she lives. Bitter, surrounded by someone else’s furniture, clinging to her pride. But pride, as it turns out, doesn’t cook supper or keep you warm at night.
