My Brother’s Pregnant Wife Demanded That We Give Up Our Flat for Their Growing Family—Then Blamed Me for Her Miscarriage

My brothers pregnant wife demanded we hand over our flat.

Ive been married for ten years. My husband and I live in a modest two-bedroom flat in Manchester. Were still paying off the mortgage. We havent yet dared to start a family ourselves; we want to be a bit more stable first, to be standing on our own two feet. I have a brother named Noahhes married as well. They live in a cramped bedsit on the outskirts of Birmingham. Noah juggles two full-time jobs and a bit of part-time work on the side, just to keep the wolf from the door. His wife, Edith, doesnt work at allshe seems to see childbearing as a competitive sport. Theyve already got three noisy children, and now Ediths well into her fourth pregnancy, musing aloud about a fifth, like its just collecting another teapot.

On top of the children, theyve collected a graveyard of credit agreements for everything from a deep fryer to a juicer. My husband and I regularly help them outsometimes a few quid to tide them over, sometimes a Tesco bag of beans and bread. Sometimes Edith doesnt so much ask as announce what she expects, as if its only natural wed provide. We have to pluck her from the clouds of her imagination and give a firm no. Of course, she and Noah sulk, but after a few weeks, theyre back, asking for something else.

Since you and David dont have any children, and well soon have four, you ought to let us have your flat, Edith declared one drizzly evening.

And where do you expect us to go? Your bedsit? I stared, utterly bamboozled by this dream-logic demand.

No, dont be silly, well get in some tenants, and you can rent somewhere else! she answered, quite certain of the scheme. Then she added, Sowhen will you be moving out?

You know what, Edith? Perhaps you should consider a stay in a clinic. Out of my flat, I replied, the dream getting stranger. Everything felt foggy.

Fine, then. Ill have a miscarriage and itll be your fault! she scowled theatrically, floating out the door with a rustle of her dressing gownspiralling down the stairs and melting away. And so, she didvanished that day, still in her first trimester.

At two in the morning, my brother materialised at our doorindignant, wide-eyed, covered in rain and accusation. My husband, always stoic, calmly sat Noah down and asked what was amiss. I relayed the events, the twisted dream logic of it all. My husband took Noah by the shoulders, dunked his head under the kitchen tap several times until he sputtered back to his senses, and with a steady hand ushered him into the corridorback into the drizzly haze. I havent seen my brother since.

In the way dreams go, that was how our kinship evaporated.