Sophie waved her husband—James—off to work, planting a quick kiss on his cheek before shutting the door with a sigh. The day had already been hectic: remote work piling up, chores left undone, all in the rented flat she and James had moved into after their wedding in Manchester. Freshly back from their honeymoon, they hadn’t quite settled in. The flat wasn’t theirs, but it was cosy—well-decorated, warm, and bright with a view of the river. The landlords had been picky, choosing them—a polite, professional couple—over others.
Sophie was on “work-from-home” duty that day—a mix of office days, paperwork, and virtual meetings. She’d just opened her laptop, diving into emails, when the doorbell rang. No one was expected. Peering through the peephole, she saw her mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore.
“Good morning,” Sophie said, forcing a smile.
“I’ve come to see my son. Move aside,” Margaret replied, stepping in without waiting.
“James isn’t here. He’s at work.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ll wait,” she declared, marching toward the kitchen.
“Actually, I’m working—video calls scheduled. Why not come back this evening when James is home?” Sophie stepped into her path, polite but firm.
Margaret huffed but turned on her heel and left. That evening, James was baffled:
“Mum said you didn’t even offer her tea.”
“Jim, you *know* how she drops in like she owns the place. I was working, not running a B&B. And remember how she acted at our last flat?”
James shrugged.
“Can’t change her ways. I’ve invited her for Sunday lunch—let’s try again, keep it civil.”
Sophie agreed but added,
“Saturday’s cleaning day, and we’ve got friends’ birthday plans. The schedule’s packed.”
Sunday lunch passed without fireworks. Margaret ate quietly but couldn’t resist snipping:
“This flat’s too pricey. You could’ve rented somewhere cheaper on the outskirts. And your parents have a house—why not live there, save up?”
Sophie kept her cool.
“Ask James if he fancies living with my parents.”
“No thanks,” James cut in. “I need my own space.”
“But it’s not *yours*!” Margaret shot back.
“For a year, it is. We pay, it works for us,” he said.
Margaret countered, “Move in with me. Three bedrooms, plenty of space.”
“No, Mum. We’ll visit. Living together’s a disaster—different routines.”
The next week, Sophie was working from home again. James had left, and she dozed off—only to wake to the smell of fresh coffee. Confused (James never made coffee before work), she threw on a robe and froze in the kitchen doorway. There sat Margaret, sipping coffee with a slice of Victoria sponge.
“How did you get in?” Sophie demanded.
“I have keys. Nigel—my ex—gave them. His flat, his rules. What’s his is mine.”
“*Where* did you get keys?” Sophie hissed.
“Took them Saturday. From the key bowl. They’re staying with me,” Margaret said smugly.
“We’ll discuss this with James. For now—please leave. I’m working.”
“I’ll go when I’ve said my piece. Never liked you. Fancy name, no family to speak of. James used to give me half his salary—now it’s pennies. All spent on you. Rent, takeaways, freeloading. No grandkids, and your cooking’s worse than a school canteen!”
“Finished?” Sophie said calmly. “Then hand over the keys.”
“Not a chance.” Margaret reached for her purse, but Sophie was quicker—dumping its contents on the table and snatching the keys.
“Now. Leave.”
“You’ll regret this. James will toss you out when he hears how you treated his mother!” Margaret screeched, slamming the door behind her.
That evening, Sophie told James everything. He listened, pulled her close, and said,
“I’ll handle it. And—you were right.”
Sophie didn’t cry. She knew respect had to be reclaimed in time—before relatives decided your head made a good footstool.
