The scent of fried sausages filled the kitchen when the doorbell rang. Emma, still wearing her apron, opened the door to find a young courier standing there.
“Good afternoon! Your parcel,” he said cheerfully.
“What parcel? I didn’t order anything,” Emma replied, puzzled.
“Flat number ten?” he confirmed.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s definitely yours.”
Hesitantly, she signed the form and took the large box. The moment she opened it, her blood ran cold. Inside was a funeral wreath—not decorative, not a mistake, but a real one, complete with a black ribbon bearing her name.
The sender wasn’t listed. Just a silent message: “Rest in peace, Emma.”
“Who could hate me enough to send a wreath to my home?” she whispered later, her voice shaking.
Her husband, Henry, dismissed her concerns.
“Why would you think it’s Mum? She loves you!”
“Loves me? She’s never even said my name without sneering!” Emma shot back bitterly.
And it was true. Her mother-in-law had despised everything about her—her petite frame, her job as a receptionist, the simple dresses she wore. Emma tried her best, sewing her own clothes, always polite, yet all she received in return were snide remarks and contempt.
“Look at this embarrassment,” Margaret whispered to her son. “Can’t even string two words together properly.”
Henry stayed silent, pretending everything was fine. But his silence was agreement. His mother grew bolder, crossing lines even though they lived in Emma’s flat.
When Emma suggested renting out the place and finding somewhere her mother-in-law preferred, Margaret rejected every option—loudly, dramatically. And Henry? He sipped his tea and said nothing.
The wreath didn’t work, so Margaret escalated. One day, Henry “discovered” men’s underwear in the wardrobe.
“Care to explain this?” he hissed, holding them up.
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd?” Emma retorted. “How could I even reach that shelf? I’d need a ladder!”
The spare keys were with Margaret. Everything fell into place. Yet Henry stayed silent. Again.
The next “gift” was a bucket of blackberries. Margaret handed it over with a smile.
“Vitamins! For my dear daughter-in-law!”
The next morning, Emma found a half-frozen hedgehog inside. Thankfully, Henry was there to see it. Of course, he claimed it was an accident. “Must’ve crawled in. These things happen.”
Later, Emma found a doll under the bed, needles stabbed into it. The situation felt like a cheap horror film. Still, she endured. Because she loved him. Because she believed the man beside her was her protector—not just his mother’s son.
The final straw came unexpectedly. Emma returned from work early and caught Henry with another woman—in their own flat.
She kicked him out. Fast. No mercy.
He tried to justify himself.
“She came over uninvited! I didn’t plan this!”
But Emma was done. Especially when the “guest” turned out to be the niece of Margaret’s best friend. Too convenient.
Three years she’d put up with it. Some wouldn’t last three months. But she had hoped.
And Henry? He went back to his mother. Where else?
But life had one last twist. Margaret had a new romance—a late-life passion fiercer than her first. And it wasn’t in her flat, but in her lover’s tiny studio. Now, she was the one without a home.
Irony?
The lesson? Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes, it comes true—just not how you imagined.
