“You can think what you like about me, but youll never prove a thing,” hissed the mother-in-law, her voice dripping with menace as she cornered her daughter-in-law.
“Listen carefully, Marigold. You can believe whatever you want, but the truth wont change. Youve got no proof, no witnessesand Oliver trusts *me*. So if you want to stay in this family, youll keep your head down. Clean, cook, and keep that mouth shut. Understood?”
Marigold had married Oliver years ago, and soon after, their son Benjamin was born. Now six, he was the light of their lives. Both parents worked hardOliver as an engineer, Marigold as an accountant at a small firm. They werent wealthy, but they got by, their home filled with warmth and shared effort.
Then Olivers mother, Margaret, was diagnosed with a severe heart condition. She could no longer work, relying entirely on her sons support. Marigold did her partstopping by after work with groceries, preparing meals, sometimes bringing Benjamin when there was no one else to watch him. At first, it felt natural, even noble.
But the strain grew. Money vanished fastermedications, treatments, special diets. Oliver handed over part of his salary without question, and Marigold said nothing. Until she noticed their own needs slipping away. Benjamin needed new shoes. His swimming lessons cost more. The washing machine broke. Her winter coat, five years old, frayed at the edges.
“Just be patient,” Oliver would murmur. “Mum comes first.”
She swallowed her frustrationuntil the day she overheard the truth.
It was a half-day at work, and shed just received a modest bonus. A rare spark of hope flickeredshe imagined a quiet evening with Oliver, wine, cheese, just like the old days. Stopping at the shop, she picked up fresh vegetables, milk, then headed to Margarets flat, key in hand.
The voice from the kitchen wasnt the television.
Margaret stood by the cracked window, cigarette smoke curling into the air. “Oh, Ill keep up the act as long as I need to,” she rasped into the phone. “Why not? Olivers wrapped around my finger, and that wife of mine dances attendance. Im not giving *that* up. Cheers, Veronicaowe you one for that medical note.”
Marigolds vision blurred. The bag slipped from her grip, tomatoes and apples scattering across the floor.
Margaret spun around. “Marigoldwait! I can explain!”
But Marigold was already halfway down the stairs, heart pounding, the betrayal carving a hollow in her chest.
That night, after Benjamin was asleep, she faced Oliver in the kitchen.
“Your mother isnt sick,” she said flatly.
He frowned. “What?”
“I heard her today. Bragging about faking it. Her friend Veronica forged the documents.”
Olivers face darkened. “Thatsno. Veronica works at the clinic, but Mum wouldnt”
“Wouldnt lie?” Marigolds voice was steel. “Then why do you think weve been scraping by? Your fathers been sending money every week. Did you wonder how Benjamin got that new coat?”
The next day, Oliver went to Margarets flat unannounced. She greeted him with theatricspale, trembling, clutching her chest. “It was dreadful last night,” she sighed. “Couldnt sleep, couldnt eat…”
He watched her carefully. Too carefully.
A week passed in tense silence. Then, with Oliver away on business, Marigold reluctantly returned to the flat, armed only with bread and medicine.
Margaret smirked from the kitchen. “Ah, Marigold. Rememberno proof, no witnesses. Oliver trusts *me*. So unless you want trouble, youll play along.”
Marigold set down the bag. “Understood.”
But her phone had recorded every word.
That evening, Oliver listened to the playback in his hotel room, hands shaking. The voice was unmistakablecold, calculating, cruel.
When he confronted Margaret, she sneered. “That wife of yours poisoned you against me!”
“No,” he said quietly. “You did that yourself.”
He left without another word, returning home with rosesdeep red, Marigolds favourite. “Im sorry,” he whispered on the doorstep.
She took them wordlessly, tears glistening.
After that, visits to Margaret were rare. Oliver helped only when necessary. The woman whod manipulated them now sat alone in her spotless flat, forced back to work, her grandsons laughter a distant memory.
And Oliver, holding his wife and son close, understood at lastfamily wasnt blood. It was trust. It was truth. And hed nearly lost both.
