When my mother-in-law gave us her old house, I thought she was finally showing kindness. My husband and I spent months turning it into a home, investing all our savings and hard work. But just when we were ready to enjoy it, she came to me with a demand that left me speechless.
I had always believed that mothers loved their sons more than their daughters. It was something I had heard people say many times. But it turned out that wasn’t true. I grew up with a sister, and our parents never treated us any differently. We were equals in every way. That’s why, when I met John’s mother, I wasn’t at all prepared for what I saw.
John and I had been married for a while and were saving for our own house. Because of this, we were living with my parents. It wasn’t ideal. Their house was small, and space was tight. But every day, I reminded myself it was only temporary. We had hoped to stay with John’s mother, Constance, instead. Her house was much bigger. But when we asked, she rejected us.
“Lisa and Anthony already live with me,” Constance snapped, her lips pressed into a thin line. “I don’t want my son living here too. You’re a man! You should be providing for your family!”
John straightened his shoulders. “Mom, it’s just temporary. Just until we save enough for a house.” His voice was calm, but I could hear the tension in it.
Constance shook her head. “No. And that’s final. When I married your father, we didn’t run to our parents. We found our own way. Rent an apartment.” I took a deep breath. “The problem isn’t that we can’t rent. We want to save that money for our own house instead of throwing it away.”
Constance crossed her arms. “John is a man. He should figure it out. That’s his responsibility.”
For some reason, she didn’t seem to care that Anthony, Lisa’s husband, wasn’t “figuring anything out.” He wasn’t saving, wasn’t planning, wasn’t trying. And yet he and Lisa had a roof over their heads, rent-free. Constance welcomed them without question. They depended on her for everything, and she allowed it.
John and I had no choice but to accept her decision. We stayed focused on our goal. We lived modestly, cutting everything we could. Every dollar counted. Slowly, our savings grew. We were getting close. Then one afternoon, my phone rang. I looked at the screen and saw Constance’s name. That was unusual. She never called me.
“Amanda, dear,” she said in an oddly cheerful voice. “I have a surprise for you.” I frowned. A surprise? From Constance? That was new. “What kind of surprise?” I asked.
She laughed. “Well, if I tell you, it won’t be a surprise,” she said. “Let’s meet tomorrow. I’ll send you the address.”
I hesitated. “Alright,” I replied. Before I could ask anything else, she hung up.
The next day, John and I drove to the address Constance had sent. I didn’t recognize the neighborhood. When we stopped in front of a small, run-down house, I felt my stomach tighten.
Constance stood by the front door, smiling.
“Mom, what are we doing here?” John asked, getting out of the car.
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a key. Her eyes sparkled as she opened the door and pushed it open.
“Come on in,” she said, stepping aside.
John and I exchanged a look before stepping inside. The air smelled musty. The floor creaked beneath our feet. Dust covered everything. Some windows didn’t close properly, and there was a water stain on the ceiling. I crossed my arms. “Are you going to explain what this is?”
Constance’s smile widened. “This house belonged to my father—your grandfather, John. No one has lived here for years. No one’s taken care of it. So I thought, why buy a house when you can just fix this one up?”
“Of course,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re my son. I want to help you somehow.” John turned to me. “What do you think?”
I looked at the walls, the sagging ceiling, the cracked kitchen tiles. It needed a lot of work. But if we fixed it up, it could be ours. “Well, we could use the money we saved for a house to renovate this one. I think it’s a good option.” “Wonderful,” Constance said. “Thank you,” I said, hugging her. John did the same.
“Oh, stop it. You’re my kids,” she said, pressing the keys into John’s hand. “Enjoy.”
She turned to leave, but John stopped her. “What about the house documents?”
“It’s in my name, but we’ll sort that out later,” she said, waving her hand dismissively before walking off. John and I stood there in silence.
“I can’t believe she gave us a house,” he said at last.
“Yeah, that was unexpected,” I murmured. “What happened to all that ‘You’re a man, provide for your family’ talk?” “I don’t know,” John admitted. “But we finally have our own place! We should be happy!”
He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. I forced a smile. I wanted to believe this was a gift. But something still didn’t sit right.
Months passed, and John and I worked tirelessly on the house. Every evening after work, we changed into old clothes and got to work. We cleaned years of dust and grime from the walls. We tore out rotten floorboards and replaced them one by one.
We painted every room, covering the stains and cracks that told a story of years of neglect.
The money vanished faster than we expected. Every time we fixed one problem, another showed up. The electrical wiring was a mess—dangerous and outdated. The plumbing had leaks in places we hadn’t even noticed at first.
Some repairs were beyond our skills, forcing us to hire professionals, draining our savings even more.
But we kept going. Night after night, we pushed through exhaustion, determined to turn this house into a home.
John and I stood in the middle of the living room, taking it all in. The walls were fresh and clean.
The floors were solid and smooth. The house smelled of wood and paint, not dust and decay. “We did it,” I whispered, barely believing it.
“Yes,” John said, smiling. “We finally have our own home.” He hugged me and kissed me.
To celebrate, we decided to host a small housewarming party for close friends and family. Laughter and conversation filled our home that night. But as much as I enjoyed the evening, I couldn’t ignore one thing—Constance still hadn’t mentioned the paperwork.
Months had passed, but she hadn’t taken a single step toward transferring the house to us.
After everyone had toured the house and was settling in, I took a deep breath and approached her. “Constance, can we talk in private?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light. She smiled and nodded. “Of course, dear.”
I led her to a quiet corner of the house, my heart pounding. It was time for answers.
I took a breath. “I wanted to talk to you about the house,” I said carefully. Her smile grew. “You did an amazing job! The house is unrecognizable! It’s fantastic!” she said, her eyes roaming over the freshly painted walls. “I always knew you had good taste, Amanda.” “Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But I wanted to discuss the pape—”
“Are you serious?” I shouted.
Constance blinked, almost offended. “I don’t understand why you’re yelling. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is that we spent thousands on this house! Thousands! We worked on it every night after work, planned everything, saved money—everything to make this place livable! And now you expect us to just give it away?”
“You and John have more opportunities than Lisa and Anthony. You can buy another house—you were saving anyway,” she said, waving her hand like I was throwing a tantrum.
“We spent almost all our savings fixing this house!” I yelled.
“Well, you’ll earn more,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Anthony is unemployed. He can’t buy a house, especially with a baby on the way.”
I felt something break inside me. “It’s not my fault your daughter and her husband can’t do anything! This is our house! We put everything into it!”
Constance’s face twisted in anger. “How dare you talk about my daughter like that! This is MY house!” she screamed.
“I want you out in a week! If you’re not gone, I’ll call the police and report you for trespassing!”
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the walls shook.
I stood frozen, my heart pounding. I didn’t cry. Not yet.
When the last guest finally left, I collapsed onto the couch and broke down. I told John everything.
“How could she do this to us?” John shouted, pacing back and forth. His fists clenched. “I’m going to talk to her!”
He tried. He called again and again, but she ignored him. He even went to her house, but she refused to let him in.
For a week, I barely slept. My mind kept racing for ways to stop her. Nothing felt fair. Nothing felt right. Then, an idea hit me.
I turned to John. “I have a plan,” I said.
The next day, we packed everything. We handed the keys to Constance. She looked so pleased with herself. But I couldn’t wait to see her face when she walked in.
The next day, the front door swung open so hard it nearly came off its hinges. Constance burst into my parents’ house, her face red with rage.
“What did you do?!” she screamed, her voice shaking the walls.
John and I sat calmly on the sofa. We looked at each other, then back at her with identical smiles.
Because the house was empty.
Every piece of furniture—gone. Every fixture, every pipe, every cabinet—removed.
Even the flooring we had installed was no longer there. The house looked exactly like it had the day she first showed it to us.
“Put everything back!” she screamed, fists clenched at her sides.
I crossed my arms. “We did put everything back,” I said. My voice was calm, firm. “Everything is exactly the way it was when you gave it to us.”
Her nostrils flared. “You know that’s not what I meant! How are Lisa and Anthony supposed to live there?!”
I tilted my head. “That’s not our problem,” I said. “Now, leave before I call the police for trespassing.”
Her hands trembled. “You… you…” Her face twisted with rage. “I have no son anymore!” she shouted.
She turned and stormed out, slamming the door behind her so hard I thought the windows might break.
John exhaled. “As if she ever really did,” he muttered. I hugged him tightly, relieved that Constance was finally out of our lives.
That night, my parents pulled us aside. My mother took my hands in hers. “We’ve been saving money for you,” she said gently.
“We wanted to help with the house renovations, but things turned out differently. So now, we want you to use it as a down payment for a new house.”
John and I stared, stunned. Then, without a word, we embraced them. To this day, we remain grateful for their kindness.
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