And the Mother-in-Law Knew It All Along!

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 1

Alice, love, youre free on Saturday, arent you? Her motherinlaws voice rang through the handset, warm and familiar, with that unmistakable inflection Alice had learned to spot in three short years. We need to haul the jam jars down to the cellar the veranda is packed solid. And the loft is a disaster, but I cant be bothered sorting it out.

Of course, Margaret Sinclair, Ill be there first thing in the morning! Alice smiled, phone pressed to her ear while she gave the soup a stir. Should I bring Charlie?

Oh, no, his projects on fire, you know how that goes. Let him stay home and work in peace.

They agreed that Alice would catch the nineoclock coach. She hit the snooze button, returned to the stove, and hummed a catchy jingle from a TV advert. Outside, the sun was a weak greying disc; on the windowsill a sad little ficus languished, and Alice still couldnt bring herself to toss it out.

Saturday morning found her squeezed into a jampacked coach that reeked of diesel and someones stale pork pies. She snagged a window seat and rested her cheek against the cold glass. Beyond the citys edge the fields stretched, dotted with strips of woodland, and Alice dozed as the engine droned on.

A sudden jolt and a shouted protest snapped her awake. The coach had lurched onto the hard shoulder, tipped onto its right side. The driver announced, We’ve got a busted tyre, the spares rotten, well have to wait for a replacement from town.

Two hours at least, he added, waving his hands. Maybe three.

The passengers muttered, piled out onto the verge. Alice stood by the coach for about ten minutes, then, with a determined sigh, stepped onto the road and raised her hand. A battered Ford Fiesta pulled up, an affable old chap at the wheel.

Town, love? Hop in, Ill give you a lift.

She flopped onto the passenger seat and texted Margaret: Coach broke down halfway, heading back home, can we reschedule for next weekend? The phone buzzed: message delivered.

Forty minutes later Alice was standing at the door of her fivestorey flat, calmly climbing to the third floor. She fumbled for her keys, twisted the right one, and slipped it into the lock. Just then her phone erupted. The screen flashed Margaret Sinclair.

Hello?

Alice! Margaret shrieked, her voice cracking. Where are you? Did you get there? Are you at the cottage?

No, I wrote the coach broke down, Im back. Im standing at the door, about to go in and

Dont go in!

Alice froze, key still in the lock.

What?

Dont go inside! Hear me? Dont open the door! Turn around and come straight to me, now, this instant!

Margaret, are you alright? Alice laughed nervously. What on earth is happening? Im literally on the doorstep

Alice, Im begging you! I need your help here!

But Alice had already turned the key. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open.

And time stopped.

The hallway was a chaotic shoestore: her ballet flats, Charlies trainers, and a pair of glossy highheels perched on a shoe rack. A strangers umbrella leaned in its stand. A cloyingly sweet perfume hung in the air not hers.

Just beyond the hall, in the livingroom doorway, stood Charlie in shorts and a tee, barefoot and in his arms a woman. She had dark hair, slim shoulders, and rubyred nail polish digging into his back.

They kissed as if the world had melted away.

Charlie was the first to open his eyes. Seeing his wife in the doorway, his face went as white as a sheet, blood draining from his face so fast Alice thought he might faint.

The woman turned. She was young, about twentyfive, with doelike eyes. In a heartbeat she snatched her bag, those highheels, the umbrella, slipped past Alice, wafted a cloud of that saccharine perfume, tapped her heels up the stairs and vanished.

Alice still held the phone to her ear.

Alice! Margaret screamed again. Alice, answer! Did you get in? Alice!

How many times? Alice croaked.

What?

How many times have you pulled me into this, Margaret? The jars, the beds, the loft How many times have you covered for your son? How many times have you laughed behind my back because I didnt know the truth?

Silence. Then a dull tone. Margaret hung up.

Alice lowered her hand, looked at Charlie, who stood in the middle of the lounge, mute.

So? Alice asked, deadpan. Anything to say?

Alice, I can explain everything

She burst into a hysterical laugh, the sort that borders on madness.

Explain? Seriously? You actually think thats a thing?

It meant nothing! Shes just

Just what? Just happened to land on your face?

Charlie stepped forward. Alice backed away.

Dont come near me. Dont you dare.

Listen

No, you listen. She found her voice oddly calm. This flat is mine. Bought before we married, with my grannys inheritance. You have no right to be here. Youve got fifteen minutes to pack your things and get out.

Alice, lets talk

Fourteen minutes.

You cant just

Thirteen.

He got it. From the set of her jaw, the tone of her voice, the steely look in her eyes he knew she wasnt bluffing. He bolted to the bedroom, slammed the wardrobe doors. Alice stood in the hallway, pressed against the wall, counting her breaths. Inout. Inout. Not a sound.

Twelve minutes later Charlie reemerged, a sack of random belongings and his jacket slung over his shoulder. He stopped at the door.

Keys, Alice said flatly.

He rummaged in his pockets, tossed his keyring onto the console and left.

The door closed behind him with a soft sigh. Alice waited a minute, then clicked the lock twice, threw a chain over the knob and slid down the wall, collapsing into sobs.

On Monday she filed for divorce. The paperwork was processed quickly no children, assets split, no grudges. Just a tidy formality.

Charlie never called. Margaret never texted. It was as if three years of shared life had simply evaporated.

A week later Alice sat in a cosy café with Lucy, her best friend since university. Lucys mouth hung open, latte cooling.

Wait a sec youre saying the motherinlaw knew everything? She sent you to the cottage while he was?

Sounds about right.

Exactly!

Alice cracked a crooked grin.

The funny thing? I always thought of her as a second mum. I believed, finally, Id found a real family. Turns out it was a stage. Both of them were playing roles from day one.

From day one?

Think about it. When we met, I already had my own flat, a stable job, decent income. He was renting a room, juggling odd jobs Alice took a sip of her coffee, the bitterness hitting her tongue. Maybe not from the very first day, but pretty soon he realised he could park himself comfortably.

Do you think he ever?

I dont know. She stared into her cup, foam swirling. Maybe he loved me in his own twisted way, but not enough to stop bringing other women into bed, not enough to lie every single day. And his mother she wanted a daughterinlaw whod be a workhorse hauling jars, weeding beds, sorting things out, while keeping the son in place.

Lucy placed her hand over Alices, squeezing gently.

Im sorry, Alice.

Dont feel sorry. Alice lifted her gaze. Im not going to wilt. I lost three years, sure, but that happens. Im not going to waste another day on them.

What now?

Alice finished her coffee, set the cup down.

Now live. Start fresh. No fake husbands, no phony mothersinlaw. I still have my flat, my job, my life. Thats enough.

She rose, threw on her coat. Outside, rain drummed a fine, irritating rhythm against the café windows. Alice smiled. The bad stuff was behind her. It hurt, yes. It was gnawing, teethgrinding hurt. But shed survive. And this tale? Just another pricey lesson painful, but a lesson nonetheless.

Lucy caught up with her at the door.

Alice, you really okay?

Ill be fine, Alice replied, turning back. Give it time. Ill be happy again.

She stepped into the rain and headed home, where a new cake recipe waited, and a future she was now building all by herself.

The Sunday Dad: A Story “Where’s my daughter?” Olesya repeated, her teeth chattering—was it from fear or from the cold? She had left Zlata at a birthday party, in the children’s playroom at a shopping centre. She barely knew the birthday girl’s parents but didn’t worry—this wasn’t the first time she’d left her daughter at a kids’ party, it was nothing out of the ordinary. Only today, she was late—the bus hadn’t come for ages. The shopping centre was in an awkward spot, everyone usually drove there, but Olesya didn’t have a car. So she’d taken Zlata by bus, gone home for her scheduled lessons, which couldn’t be cancelled, then come back—and was just fifteen minutes late, sprinting over the icy car park, out of breath. Now, the birthday girl’s mum, a petite woman with big blue eyes, stared at Olesya in surprise and said: “Her dad picked her up.” But Zlata didn’t have a dad. Well, technically she did, but he’d never met his daughter. Olesya met Andrey by chance—out walking with a friend along the river, her friend twisted her ankle, some lads offered help. Just like in a familiar movie, they lied about being students at Oxford, about generals and professors for fathers. Why they did it, who knows—young and foolish. But when Olesya got pregnant, and Andrey found out she was a trainee primary teacher and her dad was a bus driver, he shoved money for an abortion into her hands and vanished. Olesya didn’t get the abortion, and never once regretted it—Zlata became her lifelong companion, wise beyond her years and utterly dependable. They were always happy together; while Olesya taught lessons, Zlata played quietly with her dolls, and afterwards they’d cook milk soup or eggs in the kitchen, sharing tea and buttered biscuits. Money was always tight—most went on rent—but neither Olesya nor Zlata complained. “How could you hand my child over to a stranger?” Olesya’s voice trembled and tears welled up. “But he wasn’t a stranger,” snapped the blue-eyed woman. “He’s her father!” Olesya could have set her straight, but what would’ve been the point? She needed to speak to the security staff, get the CCTV footage… “When did this happen?” “Just ten minutes ago…” Olesya spun round and ran. Over and over, she’d told Zlata: never go off with anyone you don’t know! Her legs wouldn’t obey, her vision blurred, she bumped into people but didn’t stop, didn’t apologise. On instinct, she cried out: “Zlata! Zlata-aa!” The food court was noisy, most people ignored her shouts, but a few glanced round. Breathless, Olesya had no idea what to do—maybe her daughter hadn’t left yet, maybe… “Mummy!” For a moment, she couldn’t believe her eyes. There was her daughter, coat flapping, ice cream smeared all over her little face, running towards her. Olesya grabbed her and clung on as if letting go would make her collapse right there (and maybe it would). Then she stared at the man. Respectable, short-cropped hair, ridiculous jumper with a snowman, ice cream in his hand. He saw in her eyes all she wanted to say, and babbled: “I’m so sorry! I should’ve stayed right there, but those little monsters were teasing her! Said Zlata didn’t have a dad, and he’d never come, because she’s weird. So I thought I’d teach them a lesson—said, ‘Come on, love, let’s get an ice cream till mummy arrives,’ Honestly, I didn’t realise you’d be so worried…” Olesya was shaking. She wasn’t about to trust a stranger. But had they really been teasing Zlata? She looked into her daughter’s eyes, and Zlata got it instantly. She sniffed, stuck out her chin. “So what! I’ve got a dad now too!” The man spread his hands awkwardly; Olesya still couldn’t say a word. “Let’s go,” she finally managed. “It’s late—we’ll miss the bus.” “Wait!” he offered, tentatively waving. “Can I give you a lift? I mean, after all this… No, don’t get me wrong, I’m not a weirdo! My name’s Arthur. I’m a good guy! Look, that’s my mum—I promise, she’ll vouch for me.” He pointed to a woman with purple curls at a nearby table, buried in a novel. “If you like, we can go to her—she’ll give the best references!” “I’m sure,” muttered Olesya—still quite tempted to whack him over the head. “Thanks, we can manage.” “Mum…” Zlata tugged on her sleeve. “Let them see daddy’s driving us home!” The birthday girl and her mum were still by the playroom with another child Olesya didn’t know. Her daughter’s eyes were pleading. It would be hard tramping home over icy pavements in this state. Olesya made up her mind. “Alright,” she said, curtly. “Brilliant! I’ll just let my mum know!” “Mummy’s boy,” thought Olesya, not unkindly. The woman gave her a friendly wave, and Olesya spun round, mortified. What a ridiculous situation! On the way, she tried not to meet Arthur’s eyes but couldn’t help noticing how gentle he was with Zlata. Zlata sang like a lark—Olesya had never seen her so happy. But when they stopped outside her block, Zlata suddenly drooped. “Will we see you again?” she asked Arthur quietly, looking furtively at her mum. Olesya realised he was waiting for her permission. She wanted to say, “No, Zlata, you mustn’t,” but seeing her daughter’s anxious little face, she couldn’t. She caught Arthur’s look and nodded. “Well, if your mum says yes, I can take you to the cinema for a cartoon. Have you ever been?” “Really? No—I haven’t! Mum, can I go to the movies with daddy?” Olesya coloured. Now she was the one stumbling over her words. “Right, Zlata, you can—on two conditions. First, it’s not polite to call a stranger daddy—call him Uncle Arthur, alright? Second, I’m coming too, because what did I say? Never go with someone you don’t know, no matter how nice they seem!” “I said the same,” Arthur cut in. “About not going off—I did say.” “So can I go?” “I just said—yes.” “Yay!!!” Olesya knew she ought to nip all this in the bud, but couldn’t. She had no one left in the world but Zlata. If only she had someone to turn to! Like her own mum. Olesya barely remembered her—her mum died when she was five, the same age Zlata was now. A boy fell through an icy pond, no one dared go in, but she did. She saved him, but… she caught pneumonia and, with diabetes already, deteriorated fast. That’s why Zlata had diabetes too—Olesya still blamed herself for passing it down. Olesya worried all week until the weekend, but it turned out she needn’t have: when they went to the cinema, Arthur brought his own mother. “So you know I’m not some nutter, my mum can be my best advert,” he grinned. “Well, he is a bit mad,” his mum said with a smile that showed she doted on her son. And while Arthur took Zlata for popcorn, his mum did, in fact, “advertise” him. “You see… May I call you Olesya? Arthur grew up without a father too. I’ve been married four times, and my last husband was perfect! Absolutely perfect, Arthur’s just like him. But, fate had other plans—he never got to hold his son. Heart attack. I gave birth early, I’ve no idea how I coped. Of course, my first husbands helped… Don’t give me that look! We’re still on good terms—first one still loves me, second was the wrong gender, and third loved women far too much to settle down. They all helped try to be a dad to Arthur, but a dad’s a dad. That’s why he connected so quickly with Zlata—he was bullied, too, at school. Poor lad! I was at the teachers’ office so much! He did all sorts of daft things on a dare, just to prove himself, once nearly got himself killed…” What a character—petite, wiry, purple hair, Chanel suit and a Candace Bushnell novel. Olesya couldn’t help liking her. “Don’t worry, he’s not up to anything—just has a kind heart,” she winked. “And he’s taken quite a shine to you.” Olesya flushed. Just what she needed! She knew she shouldn’t encourage this, but felt so sorry for Zlata… After the film, she tried to pay Arthur for the tickets but he shook his head. “When I invite girls, it’s my treat!” Olesya didn’t like that either—she was used to always paying her own way and being independent. Falling for him—nonsense, that’s not how life works. When Arthur drove them home, Zlata piped up: “Daddy, where will we go next time?” “Zlata!” Olesya scolded. She giggled and covered her mouth. “Maybe the natural history museum?” Arthur suggested, ignoring her slip. “What do you think?” “Great! Mum, can we go?” “You go without me,” Olesya said briskly. “Take Catherine with you—she did say she loves butterflies.” She jumped out first, desperate to put an end to, well, whatever this was. She just about heard Arthur whisper to Zlata: “When mum’s not listening, you can call me daddy.” And that’s how Zlata found herself with a Sunday Dad. Sometimes Olesya went, sometimes she let Zlata go with them if Catherine joined in—she still saw Arthur as a stranger and was suspicious, though every time Zlata told her, wide-eyed, how funny and wonderful Arthur was, Olesya found herself catching the excitement, even as she tried to stamp it down. Life doesn’t work like that—no knights in shining armour swoop in out of nowhere. And Arthur’s mum praised him so much Olesya started wondering what was wrong with him. After all, why would a mother be matchmaking her son with a girl like her? But gradually, Olesya’s heart melted. Arthur handled things so gently—leaving a chocolate bar on the shelf as he left, always asking before taking Zlata anywhere, watching for Olesya’s opinion. She especially liked Catherine—if Arthur hadn’t been her son, she’d have loved her as a friend. One day, Arthur rang to talk about films, Zlata appeared immediately—whispered: “Is it Arthur?” And flopped on the sofa happily. “Of course, she’d love to come,” Olesya replied by habit. “Wait… I meant both of you. I mean, just us. On our own.” Catherine piped up in the background. “At last!” “Mum, stop eavesdropping! Sorry, Olesya… She’s hopeless.” Zlata whispered: “He invited you to the movies?” Olesya laughed. “I’ve got spy ears too! Listen, Arthur, I…” “Please don’t say no! One chance, I promise to be a perfect gentleman!” “Mum, tell her about her eyes—what you said to me, that they’re just like her mum’s…” Suddenly, Olesya felt ice water on her face. What did her mum have to do with any of this? Arthur yelled at his mother, then said: “Olesya, I’ll come over and explain, alright?” She’d appreciate some explanations… Olesya paced until he arrived, Zlata quietly drawing, as if she knew. “I should’ve said straight off,” Arthur started. “I meant to, but I liked you too much… I was afraid you’d think I only cared because of your mum—and I was frightened you’d hate me. Because… she died saving me.” He stumbled, jumping from one thing to another, eyes pleading. Olesya shook, just like when she’d thought Zlata lost. “Will you forgive me?” Olesya didn’t say a word the whole time, finally forcing out: “I need to think.” “Mum, forgive daddy!” Arthur widened his eyes at Zlata, reminding her of the deal. Olesya repeated: “I need time. Please understand?” She wanted to ask a million questions, but couldn’t. When Catherine rang, though, everything changed. She told Olesya the facts. “He never knew she died—I was trying to protect him as a child. Later I slipped, and Arthur decided to find you. That evening he hoped to meet you and offer help—but then all the mix-up with Zlata… He loved you at first sight! He was worried you’d misunderstand. Don’t blame him—it was a dare, he wanted to prove he was a man even with no dad. All the kids were afraid of the ice, but he went…” Catherine didn’t push, just defended her son gently. But Zlata did push, hard! “Mum, he’s lovely! And he loves you, he told me! He could be my real daddy, don’t you see?” Olesya did see. But still… wasn’t it wrong? Nearly a month passed, and Olesya couldn’t talk to Arthur. She ignored his calls, his messages. The longer it went on, the more she wanted to pick up the phone—and the harder it became to do so. Zlata woke her in the night, crying, clutching her stomach. She’d complained earlier, and Olesya thought it was just bad yoghurt. Now she was burning with fever. With shaking hands, Olesya called the ambulance. And—for no reason she could fathom—Arthur. He arrived with the paramedics, in pyjamas, ruffled and bleary, and came along to hospital, calming her and promising it would be alright, his own voice shaky. “Appendicitis isn’t that scary,” he said. “She’ll be fine, I know it.” Olesya held his hand—whether to calm herself or him, she didn’t know. The waiting room was cold, neither wore warm clothes, so they sat huddled together, sharing warmth. Arthur leapt up to ask the surgeon about the operation. Olesya sat still, terrified to move. If anything happened to Zlata, she’d never recover. But Zlata pulled through. The doctors did a brilliant job; Zlata fought hard, though the doctor said it was a near thing. “It’s like a guardian angel is looking after her,” the doctor said, and Olesya whispered: thank you, mum! Arthur kept thanking him, but the doctor told them both to go home—they couldn’t see Zlata yet anyway, she was in intensive care, and her parents needed rest. He dropped her at her door, and Olesya expected him to invite himself in, but he stayed silent. So she said: “It’s almost morning. Would you like to come in for coffee?” And realised she really wanted him to come in. And maybe, to stay. For good. Zlata recovered quickly—to the amazement of every doctor and nurse. “That’s because I’ve got a mum and a dad,” she said. And no one but Olesya and Arthur understood why that made her so happy…

Julia Waits by the Doorstep: When the Family from Flat 22 Left Town, a Loyal Dog Settled in the Front Yard, Determined to Await Their Return… It happened in the early 1990s in a quiet English market town. On a bright June morning, a screech of brakes shattered the peace outside the local bookshop. Shop assistants rushed out, but the street was almost deserted—except for a stray, injured dog whimpering by the kerb. Vera, the bravest assistant, gently approached the dog, checking for injuries. The others—Natasha and manager Mrs. Eleanor—watched anxiously, fearing the worst. Though the dog showed no visible wounds, her lifeless hind legs suggested serious trauma. Vera insisted, “We can’t leave her out here. Let’s carry her into the stockroom—it might help.” With the manager’s permission, she carefully brought the medium-sized mongrel inside. All day, the dog lay quietly; by evening, she managed a little water and food but could not move her back legs. The next day, Vera persuaded her dad to drive them to the town’s only vet—little more than a converted shed. After a brief exam, the vet gave little hope: “She’s young and strong—she’ll survive, but she may never walk again.” On the drive home, Vera embraced the dog. Her father sighed, “Don’t get too attached. We’re moving to the North soon, and you shouldn’t bring her home.” Vera quietly agreed, but the bond was already there. They named her Julia. The dog remained in the bookshop’s storeroom, dragging her hind legs behind as she explored the yard. The other shop assistants worried, “No-one can take her home, and she wouldn’t survive on the streets. Thank goodness Mrs. Eleanor lets us keep her here.” Julia seemed unfazed by her condition—curious, gentle, and grateful for care. At weekends, the assistants took turns bringing her home; only Vera refused, knowing she’d soon relocate with her family for two years. But one weekend, with no volunteers, Vera relented. Julia charmed Vera’s mother on arrival, earning a spot on their family trip to the countryside. Happy amidst barbecues and friendly dogs, Julia settled by Vera’s bed as if she’d always belonged. But returning her to the shop was traumatic, and by midday she’d disappeared—only to be found exhausted, waiting by Vera’s own doorstep. From that day, Julia knew her way home. Vera decided, “I’m going to care for her, Dad. Will you help?” With her upcoming holiday and resignation, Vera devoted the next months to Julia: vet trips, physiotherapy, and constant love. The improvements were slow, but soon Julia chased after the neighbour’s dog with just a gentle limp. The joy came with heartbreak—Vera’s departure loomed. The neighbour, Mrs. May, offered, “Leave Julia with me—she and my dog are great friends.” When Vera’s family left for London and then the North, Vera called Mrs. May. But Julia wouldn’t stay—even after escaping Mrs. May’s garden, she returned to Vera’s doorstep, steadfast and waiting. Neighbours fed her and let her into the foyer, where she lay outside Flat 22, undeterred by winter chill. Vera kept in touch with everyone. Julia always greeted old friends but refused to leave her post. After a year, circumstances allowed Vera to return. Julia instantly recognised her, trembling with joy. Their reunion moved the whole street. When Vera’s father prepared for another move, he relented: “Pack for you and Julia—we’ll get her papers sorted.” The vet fudged a passport, and Vera’s father even sewed a muzzle. Julia wore it proudly, sensing an adventure. Through long train rides and crowded airports, Julia stuck close to her family. Together, they travelled all over the North of England, to the countryside and back. Never once did she let her family down. Julia spent thirteen bright, happy years at Vera’s side—forever loyal, following wherever Vera led.