When Eleanor’s son got married, she proudly handed the newlyweds the keys to a two-bedroom flat. It had seemed a princely gift—after all, the couple had been scraping by in a rented place, counting every penny. The flat, though in need of work, was in a decent part of Manchester, and the deed was in her son’s name.
“Well then,” Eleanor had said. “Now you’ve got a place to call your own. Your father and I have done our bit.”
At first, all was quiet. The daughter-in-law, Emily, seemed meek and grateful, helping around the house, smiling sweetly. But the moment the question of registering her name on the lease came up, the storm broke.
“Eleanor, you know our situation,” Emily pleaded. “I need to come off my parents’ council tax so Mum can claim benefits. I can’t keep trekking to Leeds every time I need paperwork sorted! Let me register here.”
Eleanor held her tongue. She wanted to snap, “Why should you get your name on it when you won’t even lift a finger to strip the wallpaper?” Instead, she said, “Love, what’s the rush? Give it time.”
And so she stalled. Always an excuse—no time, missing paperwork, no urgency. Truth was, she didn’t want Emily’s name on a flat she hadn’t so much as hung a picture in.
“Your father and I talked,” Eleanor said firmly. “The place needs a full refurb—pipes, floors, the lot. If you’re living here, you ought to chip in. We worked it out: at least £40,000. Here’s the quote. Get it done, and we’ll sort the paperwork.”
Emily went pale at the figure. “I haven’t got that kind of money! Neither have my parents. Why should I pay for a place that isn’t mine?”
That did it.
“Not yours?” Eleanor shot back. “Then why demand the lease? We gave you a roof, free of charge—no bills, no responsibility. And now you want rights?”
The young couple withdrew. Emily fell silent. Her son, Henry, tried to mediate. “Mum, can’t we just sort it? You said the flat was a gift.”
“It was,” Eleanor said coldly. “To you. Not to her. Let her show she’s willing to invest first. Otherwise, she’ll divorce you and walk off with half? Not likely. If she wants her name on it, she pays half the council tax. She’s had it too easy.”
That evening, Emily pressed the quote into Henry’s hands. He rang her mother, furious. “Call this a gift? Might as well have said, ‘Live here, but don’t get comfortable, pay for the plumbing, and mind the water bill!’”
Her mother just sighed. Emily had already made up her mind: this “gift” wasn’t worth the strings.
Two weeks later, they handed back the keys. They took out a loan, pooled their wedding money, and bought a one-bed on mortgage. No permission needed to drill a hole or paint a wall. No one counting how much Emily spent on a rug. Just the two of them—proper homeowners.
Eleanor was stunned. No row, no drama. Just silence, then gone.
“Fine by me!” she muttered to her friend. “Now I’ll let it out and keep my pension untouched. Save it for the grandkids. They’ll learn—Gran’s no fool.”
Now, when asked where her son lives, Eleanor boasts, “Bought his own place. Good lad. Did it himself. Clever boy—he’ll manage.”
Only she sees the grandchildren less. And the invites for Christmas… well, they don’t always come.
