It must have been a good many years past nowhard to say exactlywhen the ring tone on my daughter-in-laws phone made me completely rethink my intentions to help the young couple find a place of their own.
At the time, I was living comfortably alone in a tidy one-bedroom flat in the heart of London. My husband had passed away five years earlier, and I had inherited a second two-bedroom flat from my Aunt Edith. It was in a less sought-after neighbourhood, perhaps, but still with a sensible layout and good bones. Id been letting it to a very respectable pair of young tenants. Each month, I went round to collect the renta good eight hundred poundsand to check that the property was looked after. For two years, everything had gone without a hitch.
When my son, William, married, he and his new wife Catherine decided to strike out on their own. They rented a small place themselves and started scrimping to save for a deposit on a mortgage. I didnt object, though as time wore on, I fully intended to gift them Aunt Ediths flat, letting them decide its fatewhether to sell it, refurbish, redecorate as they saw fit.
A year after their wedding, their sonthe joy of becoming a grandmotherwas born. That only strengthened my resolve to get the paperwork started for William. But about a week ago, everything changed.
The memory is tied to my sixtieth birthday. I made up my mind to celebrate properly, for myself above all. I booked a lovely room at a local bistro, invited a bevy of friends and acquaintancesnaturally, William and Catherine among them.
Catherine and I had always managed well enough together. She could be rather spirited, sometimes quick-temperedeven with mebut I always put it down to her youth. I tried not to hold onto grievances. Still, the way she managed to turn the whole gathering against me that evening sticks sharply in my mind.
William and Catherine arrived at the party with their baby. The bustle and noise of the restaurant werent really suitable for such a young child, so Catherine warned me theyd likely slip away after an hour. I understood, of course.
When it was time to go, Catherine misplaced her mobile. As she and I retraced her steps, I decided to ring her number to help find it. This mild confusion caught the other guests attention; the room hushed somewhat, and tension prickled the air. It was then that a dreadful commotion burst from the windowsilla sound between a furious growl and a howling dog barking loudly. Every head turned at once. Catherines cheeks flushed scarlet as she dashed to snatch up her phone and silence it.
Everyone’s eyes flickered between Catherine and me. My brother, ever the diplomat, quickly put on some cheerful music and rose to make another toast in my honour. But, as the saying goes, something had soured in the evening.
Throughout the rest of the night, I caught guests whispering and glancing about, intrigued and scandalised by the rather unusual ring tone my daughter-in-law had assigned to calls from me. The next day, I asked William for an explanationhed surely noticed the barking before. He simply shrugged it off, saying it was nothing.
Now, I hardly see them at all, and my plans for passing them the flat have been quietly shelved for another time, when the air between us feels kinder. I wouldve liked the courtesy of an apology, at the very leasta small recognition that my feelings mattered. If, in their minds, Im just a barking dog, wellthats their prerogative, I suppose.
