Margaret closed the door behind her husband, Edward, after kissing him goodbye on the cheek. The day promised to be long—working remotely from their rented flat in Bristol, juggling chores, still settling in after their honeymoon. The place wasn’t theirs, but it was cozy, with warm lighting and a view of the river. The landlords had picked them specifically—a young, respectable couple.
That morning, she sat at her laptop, sorting through emails, when the doorbell rang. Unexpected. No one was due. Standing there was Edward’s mother—Beatrice Whitmore.
“Good morning,” Margaret said, squinting slightly.
“I’m here to see my son. Let me in,” Beatrice demanded, stepping past her without waiting.
“Edward’s at work.”
“I’ll wait.” She made for the kitchen.
“Wait—I’ve got video calls scheduled right now. Come back this evening when he’s home,” Margaret replied firmly, blocking her path.
Beatrice frowned but turned and left. That evening, Edward seemed surprised.
“Mum complained you didn’t even offer her tea.”
“Ed, you know how she just turns up unannounced, acting like it’s her house. I was working, and she expected to be waited on. Remember what happened last time?”
Edward shrugged.
“She won’t change. I invited her for Sunday lunch—let’s try again, calmly.”
Margaret agreed but added, “Saturday’s cleaning day, and we’ve got the Johnsons’ birthday on Monday. It’s all planned.”
Sunday passed without major incident. Beatrice sat at the table, eating in silence, but occasionally muttering under her breath.
“This flat’s too expensive. You could’ve found somewhere cheaper on the outskirts. And your parents have a house—couldn’t you stay there? Save up for your own place.”
Margaret kept her voice steady.
“Ask Edward if he’d want to live with my parents.”
“No chance,” Edward cut in. “I need my own space.”
“But this isn’t even yours!” Beatrice challenged.
“It’s ours for the year. We pay, and it suits us.”
“Well, move in with me then. Three bedrooms, plenty of space.”
“No, Mum. Visiting’s fine. Living together would be a disaster. We’ve got different routines.”
The next week, Margaret was working from home again. Edward left early, and she dozed off. The smell of fresh coffee woke her. Strange—she hadn’t made any. She pulled on her dressing gown, walked to the kitchen, and froze. There was Beatrice, sipping coffee with a slice of Victoria sponge.
“How did you get in?” Margaret demanded.
“I have keys. The landlord gave them to me. His property is mine by extension.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Took them Saturday. From the key bowl. And I’m keeping them,” Beatrice said coolly.
“We’ll discuss this with Edward. For now—please leave. I’m working.”
“I’m not leaving until I’ve said my piece. I never liked you. Silly name, no family to speak of. Edward used to give half his wages to me, now it’s pennies. Everything’s for you—this flat, eating out, while you’ve no children to show for it. And your cooking’s worse than a canteen’s!”
“Finished?” Margaret asked calmly. “Then hand over the keys.”
“No. You won’t get them.” Beatrice reached for her handbag, but Margaret was quicker, tipping it onto the table—keys jingled free.
“Now leave.”
“You’ll regret this. Edward will throw you out when he hears how you treated his mother!” Beatrice shrieked, slamming the door behind her.
That evening, Margaret told Edward everything. He listened, silent, then hugged her.
“I’ll handle it. And—you were right.”
Margaret didn’t cry. She knew respect had to be claimed in time. Otherwise, even family would walk all over you.
