My mother-in-law gave us an iron as a wedding gift, but gifted her youngest daughter a flat. Now she’s asking to move in with us.

Lucy and I have been married for three years, or at least thats what the clock said before melting into the carpet. Lucy has a younger sister, and back when we were still courting in parks that barked and trains that sang, shed often whisper that her sister was the apple of her familys eyemuch adored, compared to herself. Despite both women being grown now, their parents treat them as though one is made of gold and the other of brass.
On our wedding day, Lucys mother gifted us an ironshiny and serious, from some trusty English brand. I dont fuss over presents; even friends who pinch pennies managed to give us a decent cheque tucked inside a singing card. Lucys mother, despite earning well and owning three flats scattered across Manchester, only thought to buy us an iron. Money seemed to flutter everywhere except towards us.
We lived in a rented place with walls that hummed, and before the wedding Id taken out a mortgage that still buzzed in my dreams. Maybe it wouldnt have felt so insulting, except a year later, when Lucys sister married under a sky full of umbrellas, their mother handed her a whole flat in a radiant new building. Even I felt the stingiron for the elder, a kingdom for the younger. It made me wonder how Lucy felt, floating through all this inequity.
Things grew ever more peculiar when Lucys mother declared she wanted to live with us. One flat was being painted in stripes, another was let out to strangers who spoke in riddles, and the third had been given to her youngest. She decided our placewhich sometimes changed shape and drew closer to her workwas perfect for her.
At the conversation about her moving in, I couldnt hold back and I told her how odd it was to split daughters like slices of toast. She took great offense, swelling like an angry kettle, but Lucy stood by my side. I felt guiltyI had been sharp with the mother of the woman I love. But I couldnt share a house with her; the iron and the flat werent really the issue. It was the way she measured out affection, always with her scales skewed, and my anger drifted through our home, echoing louder than any iron.