A ringing tone from my daughter-in-laws mobile shifted all my intentions about helping a young couple find their flat
I live by myself in a charming one-bedroom flat in the heart of London. My husband passed away five years ago, and I inherited another flata two-bedroomfrom my aunt, in a different, less fashionable part of the city, yet still well appointed. I let it out to some tidy young tenants who would come by once a montha ritual it seemedto collect the rent and check on the state of the place. For two years, not a single complaint.
Once my son married, he and his new wife chose to forge their own way, taking a rented flat and putting away pounds for a future mortgage. I didnt object; in fact, my long-term plan was to gift them the flat from my aunt anyway, then let them do as they pleasedsell it, renovate, redecorate, make it their own.
A year after the wedding, they had a son, and with the arrival of my grandson, I was ever more determined to draw up the paperwork in my sons name. Until just a week ago, when things took an odd turn.
It was just after I turned sixty. Id decided to celebrate with a proper doreally for myselfhired a private room in a restaurant, invited a crowd of friends and acquaintances, and of course my son and his wife.
My daughter-in-law and I get on well enough, though she can be startlingly emotionala flash of temper beating its wings unfurling across an otherwise pleasant afternoon. Still, I chalked it up to youth and the heavy rucksack of new responsibilities. However, what she did in front of everyone at my party changed my whole outlook.
My son and his wife brought the baby to the celebration. The swirl of noise and music was hardly ideal for a little one, so my daughter-in-law mentioned that theyd likely slip away within the hour. I nodded in understanding.
Soon they were preparing to leave, but my daughter-in-law couldnt find her mobile. I came after her, trying to be helpful, dialing her number with my own phone.
People watched, and a strange hush fell. There was a jolt, thenfrom the windowsilla ferocious growl, then a sharp bark and a wild, keening howl, the unmistakable cry of a dog. Everyone whipped their heads towards the sound, and my daughter-in-law, blotchy-faced and red, dashed to the window, grabbed her mobile, and silenced the call.
The guests staredfrom her, to me, and back again. My brother, ever the master of ceremonies, quickly filled the space with cheer, queued the music, and led another heartfelt toast in my honour, but as the English say, something stuck in the air.
For the remainder of the evening, I noticed the furtive whispers, guests leaning close, murmuring amongst themselves about my daughter-in-laws startling, unique ringtone shed assigned for my calls. The following day, I pressed my son for some sort of explanationsurely hed heard that caterwauling bark beforebut he shrugged it off, saying it was nothing.
Since then, Ive stepped back from themputting off the matter of the flat until the mood shifts towards something warmer. Id like, at the very least, an ordinary apology from both my son and his wife. If they see me as a dog, then so be itthat is their right.
