Mother-in-law Demanded a Duplicate Key to Our Flat, but My Husband Took My Side
Friday, 12th October
This lock looks rather flimsy, doesnt it? Are you sure its secure enough? You know what Londons like these days some burglar with a screwdriver could pop this open in seconds. Youve got all sorts of technology in here, new renovation Mrs Margaret Ashcroft tapped her perfectly manicured nail on our shiny new steel front door, her beige trench coat not quite concealing her air of disapproval.
I took a deep breath and tried not to let it sound too obvious. I glanced at my husband, who was peeling away the manufacturers film from the peephole, pretending not to notice the tension in the hallway. Tom just gave me a barely-there shrug, as if to say, Come on, its just my mum. Tolerate.
Mrs Ashcroft, its an excellent lock. Top of the range Italian, security level four, I replied, holding the door open for her to enter. We did our research, read plenty of reviews. And were having an alarm installed next month, too. Please, dont stand in the draught.
It was Mrs Ashcrofts first visit to our new flat. Wed scraped our way here five long years of renting shoeboxes from picky landlords whod frown at a nail in the wall, saving every penny from holidays to cappuccinos, and, at last, the mortgage was approved and the endless, exhausting work of dragging the place into shape finally finished. This was our fortress, our little oasis every wall colour, every tile in the bathroom chosen by us. Sometimes after long debate, but always together.
Margaret Ashcroft swept into the entrance hall, throwing a critical eye over the soft white walls and pausing at the fitted wardrobe before proceeding.
Very pale. Youll get tired of scrubbing away marks, I guarantee it, Grace, she said, slipping off her coat and handing it to Tom. I told you, didnt I? Go for a floral print. You never see the dirt on those. But its your place. Your call. Queen of your own castle.
I bit back a reply. Arguing with Mrs Ashcroft was pointless; her opinions were gospel, and deviation from her lifes route was either a personal insult or, at best, a sign of pitiful naivety.
The tour of the flat lasted an hour. She inspected every tap, touched the bedroom curtains (Man-made fibre, youll suffocate), opened the fridge with all the gravity of a public health inspector. Tom trailed after her, nodding, smiling, trying to ease friction where he could, and I set the table, anxiety mounting inside me. I knew she wasnt here just for tea and cake; years of marriage had honed my sixth sense for family storms.
We settled around the kitchen table, Tom poured the tea, and after a careful bite of Victoria sponge, Margaret set out her real agenda.
Its a nice flat, comfortable, she began, neatly folding her napkin. But I do have a concern, Tom. You two are always working, barely home. New pipes, new wiring anything could happen. You could leave a tap on, forget to turn off the iron.
Mum, our iron switches itself off. And the plumbing plastic and sealed. What could possibly happen? Tom smiled.
It pays to be careful, Mrs Ashcroft wagged her finger. My friend Eileens son went on holiday, and the radiator burst. Flooded five floors! If Eileen hadnt had the keys, theyd have had to break the door down cost a small fortune. So, heres my thought: you need to get a duplicate key cut. Give one to me.
I could taste nothing but lukewarm water in my mouth. I put my cup carefully on the saucer, making sure not to rattle it. There it was. What Id dreaded.
Why do you need a key, Mrs Ashcroft? I asked quietly but firmly, looking into her eyes.
Whatever for? she replied, as if I were dim. In case of emergencies! You lose your keys, doors lock themselves behind you. If you go on holiday, someone needs to water the plants, dust, defrost the freezer. Im retired, I have all the time in the world its no trouble at all.
I was instantly reminded of those months years ago when shed guilted Tom into giving her a spare key to our rented flat. Shed cleaned every cupboard, rearranged my underwear (more sensible this way!), stacked my pans by her own logic, and left my private journal open on the table with a crafty promise: I just dusted, didnt read a word. Of course, her snarky comments afterwards told me otherwise.
Mrs Ashcroft, thank you, but well manage. No need for you to worry about the cactus it’s only watered monthly. And should we lose our keys, well call a locksmith. These days, its all very straightforward.
Her face changed, warmth vanished in a flash.
A locksmith! Strangers in your home, throwing your money away! Youre just wasting resources, Grace. I always said so. And heres your own mother-in-law offering help for nothing! Tom, why are you silent? Tell her this is about your safety!
Tom nearly choked on his tea. He hated this part: caught between two women he loved. He looked from his mum to me and in my look was the clearest no hed ever see.
Mum, theres just no need for it. You live in Kingston, were far over in Islington takes you almost two hours to get here. If anything happens, Ill be at the flat in twenty minutes.
It isnt about speed, she frowned at him. Its about trust! Do you think Id rob you? Spy on you? Im your mother! All I want is peace of mind about my son. And you, Tom, you let her dictate everything henpecked, thats what they call it these days.
Please, lets not make it personal, I cut in, cheeks flushed. No ones accusing you of anything. Its a question of boundaries. This is our home. Our family. We want to feel its ours, not shared with anyone else no matter how close.
Boundaries! she mimicked. Modern nonsense. I bathed you, Tom, until you were five, and now you want boundaries? You should be ashamed, not trusting your own mother.
She pushed her plate away, appetite ruined.
Im not asking for them now, she said in the tone of the unjustly injured. Get the keys copied this week. Drop them at mine, or Ill pop by Toms office and collect them. No rush. But I must have a set for my peace of mind! My blood pressures through the roof when I fret.
The rest of the evening was spent in tense silence. She soon made her excuses to leave and, at the door, delivered one last loaded look at the new lock.
Pride is a poor adviser. Do think this through.
Once the door had clicked behind her, I sighed, exhausted.
Tom, you know Im not giving her a key. Not ever.
Tom raised his eyes.
She just worries, Grace. She comes from a different era control means love to her. Maybe we give her a fake set? Shell pop them in a drawer and forget.
Are you being serious? Have you forgotten when she just barged in that Saturday, at seven, making a racket with the pans? Because she assumed wed be up Honestly, Tom, I want to be myself in my home, walk around in pyjamas, leave a mug in the sink if I fancy. I dont ever want to fear your mum popping in and inspecting my life. This is OUR home.
Youre right, he said quietly, rubbing his temples. But shes relentless. Shell ring me every day about this.
Let her ring, but shes not getting a key. If you give her a copy without telling me, I will have the lock changed. Im deadly serious.
The following week was a battle of nerves. Mrs Ashcroft rang Tom daily. She started with health grumbles (my chest pains, these knees), ran through the weather, and always finished with, Well, what about those keys? Have you sorted them?
Tom fobbed her off, made up stories about being busy, key shops closed, forgot them at home. But Mrs Ashcroft was, as ever, indefatigable.
On Thursday, she called me.
Hello, darling Grace! Hows work? Her voice was treacle-sweet.
Im well, thank you.
I popped into St Marys earlier, lit a candle for you and Tom, wishing you every happiness in your new place. And do you know, Father advises blessing a new home or better yet, hanging a protective charm above the door. Ive bought a lovely cross for it. Ill be nearby tomorrow, Toms at work, I know. Can you let me in just leave a key at the concierge desk? Ill hang the cross, say a quick prayer, hardly trouble you at all.
I gripped the phone so hard my knuckles paled.
Thanks, Mrs Ashcroft. Well hang it ourselves if we decide but I wont leave keys for anyone. Call ahead some evening, and you can gift it to us over tea.
Why must you be so stubborn? Her tone changed instantly. Youve poisoned my own son against me, havent you? Tom was always gentle, accommodating before you.
Its a joint decision. We are adults.
Adults! You children what do you know about life! Let me be frank. If I havent got keys by the weekend, then I know you dont trust me at all. Dont expect to see me in your home ever again!
She hung up before I could answer. Emotional blackmail, unmistakable.
Tom came home that night looking defeated.
Mum called. She said she had a blood pressure spike over this, almost called the ambulance. She says were killing her with indifference. Grace, shall we just do it? Copy the keys, hand them over Ill put my foot down about unannounced visits.
I hugged him, helped him out of his coat.
Tom, I know its tough. You love her. But, if we yield now, shell never stop. Today its the keys, tomorrow the curtains, next time how we raise our children. Shes using her health to manipulate you. If we give in from guilt, we lose OUR family. I cant live as an accessory in her life. Can you?
He was silent for a long time, head on my shoulder.
All right, he whispered at last. Ill think of something.
Saturday came, and we planned an ordinary day off lie-in, homemade lasagne, maybe a film. At ten, our buzzer rang.
Whos there? Tom asked, still half-asleep.
Its Mum, love! Ive brought a few things for you.
Tom and I exchanged a look. No warning, no message, just the simple: Im here.
We werent expecting anyone, I murmured.
I suppose wed better let her in, Tom said. Leaving her out there isnt an option.
She breezed in, arms laden with carrier bags.
Here we are, some potatoes from the farm shop, my homemade chutney, a couple of jars of strawberry preserve, she rattled away, busying herself in the kitchen. You two survive on that processed rubbish, youll ruin your stomachs. Oh, and look at this sink! Didnt bother to wash up last night, Grace? A decent housewife keeps a sparkling sink, you know.
I, still in my dressing gown making coffee, exhaled slowly.
Its the weekend, Mrs Ashcroft. Well do it when we feel like it.
Hmm, laziness is always a generational thing, she sniffed. Anyway, Tom come over here.
He ambled in, still rubbing his eyes.
Yes, Mum?
She rummaged in her handbag, producing a little velvet pouch.
I brought a silver fob, blessed at the cathedral. God protect and keep you, it says. I shall attach it to my keys the set youve got for me. Did you make the copy?
She stared at Tom, brooking no argument. At this moment when she was physically present, gifts in hand, her concern tangible, saying no became a hundred times harder.
Tom looked at her, then at me standing by the window, arms folded. I stayed silent this one was his to win or lose.
He sat, reached out and took her hand.
Mum, thank you for the food. And the keyring, thats lovely. But theres no spare key for you.
Her eyes widened.
What? Is this a joke?
No, Mum. We discussed it there are two sets. One for me, one for Grace. Were not making any more.
But WHY? her voice shot up. Ive explained safety! Im your mother!
You are my mum, not my security service, Tom replied, his voice surer than ever before. Youre always welcome here, but only by invitation or if you let us know youre coming. We need to stand on our own feet if we lose the key or flood the neighbours, well deal with it. Thats what being grown up means.
She wrenched her hand away, her face blotchy.
SHE taught you this! She jabbed a finger at me. Youd never treat your own mother this way. Youve chosen her over me!
Thats not what this is, said Tom. Grace is my wife. This is our home. You have to respect that. If you cant, well simply have to see less of each other and thats not something I want.
Silence thick as syrup filled the kitchen. Just the hum of the fridge. Watching Tom, she searched for any weakness, any sign that the old Tom was still there desperate to please but she found a different look: the calmness of a grown man defending his home.
She rose, pale and stiff.
Fine. Do as you like lose your keys, flood the whole place. Just remember, dont come to me for help when you mess up. Dont expect any support from me in the future.
She picked up her bag, leaving all her jars on the worktop, and marched to the door.
Tom started to rise, but she dismissed him.
Dont bother. I can see myself out. Im not an invalid.
The door slammed.
I sat on his lap and wrapped my arms around his neck.
Youre a hero, Tom. Thank you.
I feel like Judas, he admitted quietly. My heart aches.
Thatll fade, Tom. This isnt betrayal its just what happens when we grow up. Youve finally cut the apron strings. Painful, but necessary.
For the first month, Mrs Ashcroft held firm no phone calls, no replies to messages. Tom would drop off bags of groceries on her doorstep, but shed never open the door, even though we knew she was inside.
It hurt him. I saw that. But I also knew that giving in would mean the end of us.
Then, in late June, a real storm hit. Powerful summer winds in Margarets area brought down trees and knocked out the power. When the BBC reported outages across Kingston, Tom immediately called his mother. Her phone was off.
He dropped everything and set off for her flat, and I went with him.
We found her sitting in her kitchen by candlelight, thoroughly shaken by the storm, her blood pressure up, her medicine finished. When she saw us standing there, soaked to the bone, arms full of groceries and her blood pressure monitor, she finally broke down in tears. Not the loud, performative tears she could be famous for, but gentle, frightened ones, the sobs of someone afraid and alone.
I thought youd abandoned me, she murmured, while I checked her pressure.
Of course not, Mum. We might live our own lives, Tom smiled, but were never far away when you need us.
We ate sandwiches by candlelight, talked about seaside plans and her new book club, neither of us mentioning the key, as if the row had never happened.
As we left, Tom suggested,
Mum, come and stay at ours? Its warm and the kettle works.
Margaret looked at both of us, something new in her expression a softening, perhaps.
No, love. Ill stay in my own spot. Besides, what would Mr Snuffles do here on his own? Be sure to ring me from time to time, just to catch up.
Of course, Mrs Ashcroft, I said with a smile. And come by on Sunday. Ive perfected my apple tart recipe.
Six months have passed since. Still, theres no duplicate set. But, oddly enough, things are better with her new choir and walking group, Mrs Ashcrofts energy is focused somewhere else, leaving us free to live our own lives.
And every time Tom and I turn our single, sturdy key in the lock of our flat, we catch each others eye; happiness is knowing that this is our place, our rules.
Sometimes, keeping your loved ones close means learning when and how to keep your door closed.
If these pages ever find another kindred spirit, let them remember: to nurture closeness, you must first set firm boundaries and guard them, together.
