“I didn’t gift you the flat—I just let you live in it.”
I have two children, both grown now. A son and a daughter. My son has a wonderful wife—a sensible girl who keeps the house tidy. They’ve already started a family of their own. They live in another city. My daughter-in-law owns her own flat, and my son has a good job, so they’ve no plans to move just yet.
My daughter, however, is another matter entirely. Flighty, irresponsible—she’s latched onto some boy, clinging to him like a barnacle. I don’t believe he’s right for her. Evelyn has a university degree, while this lad barely scraped through secondary school. He came to London working construction, of all things. But try telling that to my daughter—she insists she’s in love.
Before the wedding, my son-in-law lived in student digs. They decided on a quiet ceremony. “We can’t afford a grand affair,” Evelyn announced. “We’ll just have tea with the parents.” So, no money for a proper reception, but somehow, a café outing was perfectly manageable. At the wedding, I mentioned the flat left by my mother. I’d let my daughter and her husband live there—better than squalid shared housing. The place sits empty anyway.
Truth is, I don’t want tenants. You never know what sort you’ll get—could wreck the whole place, leave me owing the neighbours a fortune. Before my husband passed, we renovated it, spared no expense.
I decided then—no selling, no renting. Let my daughter stay for now. After I’m gone, she and her brother can sell it, split the money. Yes, my son has a roof over his head, but technically, it’s his wife’s flat. Life is unpredictable. I won’t have my daughter handed a London property while my son ends up with nothing.
“Mum, Alfie and I are moving to his hometown,” my daughter told me later. “Why on earth?” I said. “People flock to London, yet you’re fleeing to some backwater! You’ve a decent job here—what then? Quit, follow Alfie, and then what? Jobs don’t grow on trees out there.” But Evelyn wouldn’t listen.
“They promised to help me find work,” she insisted. “If it were that easy, Alfie wouldn’t have needed to come here in the first place,” I countered. Still, she did as she pleased—quit her job. Five months later, she was back. Pregnant. “Mum, I just need to sort things with the flat, then I’m heading back. Alfie’s waiting.”
“What flat?” I asked. “You mean Grandmother’s? The one you lived in?” She stared at me, baffled.
“I’ll be on maternity leave soon, no job out there—just Alfie’s wages. It’s not enough. We’re young, we want to live a bit! And with a baby coming… Mum, you gave us the flat at the wedding. Why take it back now?”
Perhaps she wouldn’t have mentioned her plans at all, but the deed was still in my name. No sale without my consent.
“You know my decision. I didn’t gift it—I let you stay. You’re welcome to return, but I won’t have you renting or selling it.”
Evelyn didn’t take it well. Tears, theatrics—her mother-in-law’s been whispering, saying I leave my children homeless. Oh, but *her* family does things right. One son got a house from his gran, another a flat, the third an aunt’s property. “You’re just selfish. Others move to the countryside to rent their London flats for extra income—not us, oh no.”
Her words didn’t make me feel guilty. Worried? Of course—stress isn’t good for the baby. But I held firm. The flat would be split equally.
It stung, though—Alfie’s family meddling, turning my own daughter against me. If you tally what she’ll inherit, it’s worth more than two flats and that ramshackle cottage where Alfie’s from.
Time will tell. But parents must follow their conscience, not bend to please. Evelyn left in a huff, skipped dinner, stormed off to the station.
You raise them, sacrifice for them—and this is how they repay you. Why does it always end this way?
