**A Wreath for the Living: How One Parcel Ended a Marriage**
The scent of fried cutlets filled the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Vera, still wearing her apron, opened the door to find a young courier standing there.
“Good afternoon! Parcel for you,” he said cheerfully.
“What parcel? I didn’t order anything,” Vera replied, bewildered.
“Flat number ten?” he confirmed.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s all correct.”
Hesitantly, she signed the form and accepted the large box. The moment she opened it, her blood ran cold. Inside lay a funeral wreath—not decorative, not festive, but real, with a mourning ribbon bearing her name.
No sender was listed. Only the silent message: “Rest in peace, Vera.”
“Who could hate me enough to send a wreath to my own home?” she whispered later, her voice trembling.
Her husband, Andrew, dismissed it.
“Why assume it’s Mother? She adores you!”
“Adores me? She’s never even said my name properly!” Vera shot back bitterly.
And it was true. Her mother-in-law had despised everything about her from the start—her petite frame, her job as a receptionist, her modest dresses. Vera tried her best, sewing her own clothes, staying polite, but in return, she received only disdain and sharp remarks.
“Look at this pitiful creature,” Margaret whispered to her son. “She can’t even string two words together!”
Andrew stayed silent, pretending all was well. But his silence was consent. His mother grew bolder, crossing lines even as they lived in Vera’s flat.
When Vera suggested renting out the flat and finding a place that suited Margaret, the older woman rejected every option—loudly, tearfully, accusingly. Andrew sipped his tea and said nothing.
The wreath didn’t work—so came the next move. One day, Andrew “discovered” a pair of men’s underpants in the wardrobe.
“Care to explain this?” he hissed, holding them up.
“Don’t you think it’s odd? How could I even reach up there? I’d need a stool!”
The keys to the flat had been in Margaret’s possession. Everything fell into place. Yet, Andrew said nothing. Again.
The next “gift” was a bucket of blueberries. Margaret handed it over with a smile.
“Vitamins! For my dear daughter-in-law!”
The next morning, Vera found a half-frozen hedgehog inside, barely alive—thankfully, while Andrew was watching. Of course, he refused to believe it was deliberate. “It must have crawled in. These things happen.”
Later, under the bed, Vera found a doll with needles stuck into it. The situation was beginning to feel like a cheap thriller. Still, she endured. Because she loved him. Because she believed the man beside her was her protector, not just a son clinging to his mother’s apron strings.
The final straw came unexpectedly. Returning early from work, Vera found Andrew with another woman—in their own home.
She threw him out. Swiftly. Mercilessly. Left him standing in his socks, as they say.
He stammered excuses. “She just turned up! I didn’t plan this!”
But Vera no longer believed him. Especially when the “guest” turned out to be Margaret’s friend’s niece. The game was too obvious now.
Three years she had endured. Some wouldn’t have lasted three months. But she had hoped.
And Andrew? He went back to his mother. Where else could he go?
But even there, a surprise awaited. Margaret had a new romance. As it turned out, a late love could be fiercer than the first. She wasn’t staying in her own flat but in the tiny one-bedroom of her new beau. Margaret—homeless but in love.
The irony?
The lesson? Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes it comes true—just not the way you imagined.
