Night calls always set my teeth on edge. Decent folk don’t ring at such an hour unless the world’s ending. So when the blare of my husband’s mobile shattered the silence of our bedroom, I flinched, bracing for disaster.
I was half-asleep when Edward sighed and picked up the phone.
“Don’t know this number,” he muttered, shooting me a glance over his shoulder.
“Turn it off. If it’s important, they’ll call back in the morning,” I grumbled, burrowing deeper under the duvet.
The ringing persisted. I exhaled sharply and threw the covers back.
“Just answer it, for heaven’s sake!” I snapped, knowing sleep was a lost cause.
Edward listened in silence for a long moment before finally saying he’d leave first thing.
“What?” I sat up, fully awake now. “Where are you off to?”
“Tom’s dead. Heart attack. His wife rang—she’s asking me to come down. I’ll take leave tomorrow. Bloody hell, Tom… not even forty yet…” Edward trudged out to the kitchen.
At dawn, I packed him a fresh shirt and razor, seeing him off. I barely knew Tom, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I weighed my options: laundry or dusting? A woman’s work is never done, weekends least of all. Cooking could wait—three days without proper meals might do me good. If desperate, I’d fry an egg. But I’d make something proper when Edward returned.
Fate, of course, had other plans.
I’d barely dressed when the doorbell shrilled. Assuming it was the neighbour after sugar, I flung the door open—only to find my mother-in-law, Margaret, looming on the threshold, her second husband, Simon, hovering behind her like a shadow.
“You don’t look pleased. We were in the area, thought we’d pop by. But if you’re busy…” Margaret didn’t budge an inch, her gaze drilling into me.
As if she’d ever announce a visit.
“Of course not, come in!” I forced a smile, stepping aside.
“We shan’t stay long, isn’t that right, Simon?” Margaret shrugged off her fur coat; Simon caught it mid-air, ever the dutiful hound.
“Keep your shoes on—I haven’t hoovered yet. Lovely to see you, Margaret. You look well.” I aimed for warmth.
“And where’s Eddie? Working? It’s the weekend. He’ll run himself ragged. You ought to find a job—then he wouldn’t have to slave on his days off.” Her tone wasn’t chiding; it was an indictment of my idleness.
“I do work—from home—”
She might as well have been deaf. The moment I mentioned remote work, her hearing failed spectacularly.
Her eyes swept the room, snagging on the dust atop the bookshelf and Edward’s shirt draped over a chair. I’d forgotten to toss it in the wash.
“New curtains? Pretty, but the old ones were fine. You live beyond your means. And this sofa—what was wrong with the last one?” She sank into it, testing the springs. “Bit light, isn’t it?”
They say memory fades with age. Margaret’s had sharpened to a blade. Who remembers another’s curtains from months ago?
Leaving her to critique the upholstery, I fled to the kitchen, inventorying the fridge. Tea wouldn’t cut it—she’d ring every friend in Hampshire to lament how poorly I’d hosted. And her precious Eddie? Starved, no doubt. Not on my watch.
Vegetables for salad—good start. I yanked a joint of beef from the freezer, thawed it in the microwave, then whipped up a sponge cake. The oven hummed; the beef sizzled; I diced peppers. The flat filled with the scent of baking. Surely she’d wander in to sniff—no such luck.
A gasp from the lounge sent me running. Margaret stood by the china cabinet, clutching a vase from Wedgwood’s finest collection.
“Antiques! Is this how you spend my son’s earnings?” Her glare could’ve withered roses.
I babbled excuses—a gift from Gran two months back—then remembered the cake. I lunged for the oven, rescuing it just in time. Thank God. Flipped the beef, clapped a lid on the pan, then attacked the salad.
Dinner was served on the good Wedgwood.
“We didn’t come to eat,” Margaret said, settling at the table. Her gaze flicked from beef to salad to cake, back to beef.
Simon speared a slice, chewing with relish. My heart soared—until Margaret’s voice froze it mid-flight.
“Simon! Have you forgotten it’s Lent?”
He choked, face twisting as if he’d bitten a toad.
I stood rigid, terrified he’d spit it out. He swallowed.
Horror dawned—Lent. How could I forget? I braced for impact.
“Eddie adores my roast,” I lied smoothly. “The butcher near us only does cod. I’d not serve you frozen fish.”
Simon polished off his portion, eyeing the platter.
“Salad, Margaret?” I beamed, passing her a bowl. At least I’d skipped the mayo.
She nibbled a cucumber slice. Miracle—no lecture on my culinary failings.
Emboldened, Simon reached for more beef—Margaret’s glare stopped him cold. He set his fork down, mournful as a scolded pup.
The kettle whistled. I served tea in Mum’s wedding china, sliding Margaret the finest slice.
“Last time I forgot the cinnamon, remember? Taste the difference.” A bald-faced lie—she’d claimed it needed more.
“Oh?” Her eyebrows climbed.
Simon, seizing the moment, shoveled beef into his mouth like a man condemned.
Margaret’s teacup met its saucer with a clink.
“Black tea’s rotten for you. Didn’t you know?” Her stare labelled me an imbecile.
“It’s Lent?” I offered weakly.
Her glare could’ve iced the Thames.
Simon lifted his fork—Margaret seized his wrist.
“Enough. Your cholesterol’s through the roof. Give him cake instead—if it won’t give him heartburn.”
Simon’s mournful gaze followed the beef as I slid cake onto his plate.
“I’ll make green tea—” I bolted up.
“Trying to poison me? Bagged tea’s full of plastic. Sit. One cup won’t kill me.” She sipped, unflinching—to my astonishment.
They drank; I sat statue-still, waiting for the next landmine.
Margaret set her cup down, cheeks pink, mood thawed.
“Where’s Eddie? He ought to be home by now.”
Eddie. A grown man, reduced to a schoolboy’s name. Edward loathed it. And me? I didn’t warrant a name at all.
“Didn’t I say? He’s gone to a funeral—his uni mate Tom. The widow rang last night. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Did you? Must’ve missed it. Pity.” Her lips pinched. Whether for missing Eddie or Tom’s inconvenient death, I couldn’t say.
Silence pooled.
“Well, we won’t keep you. Simon—we’re off.” She didn’t move.
Keep me? I’d have sooner scrubbed the flat with a toothbrush than endured this pantomime.
“Don’t be silly—stay as long as you like!” I chirped, elated the show was ending.
Margaret rose. One look sent Simon scrambling to hold her coat.
“Tell Eddie we called.” Her gaze lingered on the barely touched feast.
“Anne!” Simon called from the hall, brandishing her fur coat like a trophy.
The farewell took eons—air-kisses, murmured pleasantries.
“Meat in Lent is vulgar,” Margaret pronounced, her parting shot.
Since when was she pious? We cheek-kissed the breeze. Simon and I exchanged a glance of shared suffering.
The door shut. I collapsed onto the sofa.
Man plans; God laughs.
I cleared the table, sighed over the beef (Edward would’ve devoured it), scrubbed every dish, then dusted furiously. Peace, until next time.
Two days later, Edward returned, weary-eyed.
“You look rough. Been working hard?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “Your mum dropped by. Sorry she missed you.”
“How’d it go?” He asked as if inquiring after the Queen.
“Smashing. We parted best of friends.” My smile was angelic.
He eyed me skeptically. Truth was, I pitied him missing the spectacle. But a mother’s a mother—I never complained, knowing I’d won the husband lottery, thanks in part to her. And if she deemed me unworthy? Well, she wasn’t wrong. Six years married, no children.
Dinner was beef and potatoes—oddly, last week’s was better. Tea followed.
“You fed”Did Mum eat the beef?” Edward asked, and I smiled, shaking my head as Simon’s guilty grin flashed through my mind—some battles were worth losing, just to see the old man happy.
