The kitchen smelled of fried sausages when the doorbell rang. Vera, still wearing her apron, opened it to find a young courier standing there.
“Afternoon! Package for you,” he chirped.
“What package? I haven’t ordered anything,” Vera frowned.
“Flat 10, right?” he checked.
“Yes.”
“Then it’s all correct.”
She hesitated but signed for the large box. The moment she opened it, her blood ran cold. Inside lay a funeral wreath—not decorative, not a mistake—but a real one, complete with a black ribbon bearing her name.
No sender. Just a silent message: *Rest in peace, Vera.*
“Who would hate me enough to send a *wreath* to my home?” she whispered later, voice trembling.
Her husband, Andrew, shrugged it off.
“Why assume it’s Mum? She adores you!”
“*Adores* me? She won’t even say my name!” Vera shot back.
And it was true. Her mother-in-law had loathed everything about her—her height (“barely five-foot-nothing”), her receptionist job, her modest dresses. Vera tried hard, sewing her own clothes, always polite, but all she got in return was sneers and backhanded remarks.
“Look at this embarrassment,” Margaret would mutter to her son. “Can’t string two words together!”
Andrew stayed silent, pretending nothing was wrong—but his silence was permission. His mother grew bolder, even though they lived in *Vera’s* flat.
When Vera suggested renting somewhere that suited Margaret, every option was rejected—loudly, tearfully, dramatically. Andrew just sipped his tea and said nothing.
The wreath failed, so the next move was the discovery of men’s boxers in the storage cupboard.
“Care to explain *these*?” Andrew demanded, holding them up.
“Doesn’t it strike you as odd? I couldn’t even reach that shelf without a ladder!”
Ah, yes. Margaret had a key. The pieces fell into place—but Andrew stayed quiet. *Again.*
Next came a bucket of blueberries, delivered with a saccharine smile:
“Vitamins! For my *dear* daughter-in-law!”
The next morning, Vera found… a half-frozen hedgehog inside. Luckily, Andrew witnessed it. Still, he dismissed it: “Must’ve crawled in. Happens all the time.”
Then she found a doll under the bed—needles stuck in it. The situation now resembled a bad horror film. But she endured. Because she loved him. Because she still believed the man beside her was her shield, not just a mummy’s boy.
The final straw came early. Vera returned from work and caught Andrew with another woman—in *her* flat.
She kicked him out. Fast. No shoes, just socks, as the saying goes.
He spluttered excuses:
“She showed up! I didn’t plan this!”
But Vera wasn’t buying it. Especially since the “guest” was his mother’s best friend’s niece. Suddenly, *everything* made sense.
Three years she’d tolerated it. Some wouldn’t last three months. But she’d hoped.
And Andrew? Back to Mum’s, of course.
Except—plot twist. Mum had a new romance. Turns out, late-life love burns fiercer than the first. And she wasn’t staying in *her* flat, but her boyfriend’s tiny studio. Margaret, the lovestruck squatter.
Irony? Absolutely.
Moral of the story? Be careful what you wish for. Sometimes it comes true—just not how you imagined.
