For three years now, I’ve been married. No children yet, though the whispers of motherhood have lingered in the air for ages. All this time, my husband and I lived in a rented flat in the heart of London—not because we couldn’t afford better, but because my mother-in-law, Margaret Thompson, refused to let us into her long-vacant one-bedroom flat.
She raised Iain, my husband, alone. The flat had been given to her decades ago by the textile mill where she’d worked twenty years. Later, she remarried.
*”My stepfather was a good man—he really was like a father to me,”* Iain once said. *”But he and Mum were always rowing. She’d complain there was never enough money, always wanting more.”*
Her new husband had a daughter from a first marriage. He wanted to adopt Iain, but Margaret wouldn’t hear of it—afraid of losing her council benefits. When she moved in with him, she simply locked up her old flat. No renovations, no renting it out. *”No point,”* she’d muttered.
After our wedding, we asked if we could stay there—modest, but ours. She refused outright.
*”We’ll be divorced soon,”* she snapped. *”He’s tight-fisted, useless. I’m only with him for the money. Then where will I go if you’re already settled there?”*
True enough, she filed for divorce soon after. But she didn’t leave. Then came the blow—her husband died. Margaret was certain his two-bedroom flat would go to her. Instead, it went to his daughter.
Around the same time, my gran passed away, leaving me her cosy two-bed terrace. We began renovating, planning to move—until Margaret erupted.
*”I was the one who cared for him, while that daughter of his barely visited! I cooked his meals, fetched his medicine! And now she’s living it up in Manchester with his flat, while I’m stuck in this damp shoebox! Where’s the justice?”* she shrieked over the phone.
She’d done this to herself—refused the adoption, refused to live with us. Arguing was pointless. Back she went to that empty, neglected flat—bare walls, no furniture, no comforts.
Iain pitied her. He wanted to fix the place up, at least give it a fresh coat of paint. I offered my gran’s old furniture—we were replacing it anyway. Sturdy, clean, just not new.
Margaret had managed to salvage some things from her late husband’s flat, but most were built-in fixtures, not worth the hassle. His daughter, sharp as a tack, kept anything of value.
When we delivered the furniture, Margaret exploded.
*”What is this? Hand-me-downs from the attic? My husband’s dead, and now you treat me like rubbish! New things for yourselves, but junk for me? Disgraceful!”* she howled in the stairwell.
Gran’s sofa was barely four years old, hardly used. Our new furniture was a gift from my parents. Why she expected us to furnish her entire flat was beyond me. Worse, she demanded we take it all back, ranting that we had money for renovations but none for her.
We left. The furniture stayed in the hallway. I assumed Iain would return and haul it away. He didn’t. She called a neighbour, dragged it all inside herself. Pride swallowed when the pockets are empty, I suppose.
So there she lives. Bitter, surrounded by second-hand comfort, clinging to her pride. But pride doesn’t cook supper or tuck you in at night.
