I had a best friend, Margaret. Wed been inseparable for years. Time and again, she told me how tough her life wasand all because shed spent twenty years living with her husband and her mother.
Her mum, Edith, was that sort of woman who loved to take advantage of others, even her own daughter. Nothing was ever good enough for her. Edith was eighty-five, but I must say, she was still surprisingly active for her age.
Edith always believed her daughter owed her everythingher very existence. It went back to when Edith was pregnant and her husband walked out, leaving her for another woman. Every ounce of anger got channelled towards Margaret, who happened to look a lot like her father.
Margaret was never treated as a beloved daughtermore like a maid, cleaner, servant, anything but loved. She worked hard, juggling two jobs, and when she got home, shed start scrubbing floors and preparing meals. Her mother refused to lift a finger around the house. More than once, Edith made things deliberately difficult, complaining if Margaret cooked something she didnt fancy. And can you believe it, poor Margaret once resigned from work and travelled all the way across London just to cook the meal her mother wanted.
The day that stands out was Margarets birthday. We all gathered around the tableshed prepared an amazing spreadbut I noticed my friend looked terribly downcast. She confided that thered been another row with her mother, and we ended up leaving earlier than planned.
The next morning, I learned Margaret was gone. After wed all left, Edith stirred up another big argument. Margarets heart couldnt take it and nobody called an ambulance. She passed away that night. Thats how her mother managed to control her, even in her final hours.
