I once had a best friend named Charlotte. Wed been inseparable for years, bonded over countless cups of tea and shared frustrations about lifes little cruelties. Charlotte was always telling me how hard things were for her. All because shed spent the last two decades living with her husband and her mother.
Her mother, Margaret, was the sort of woman who believed everyone owed her somethingespecially her own daughter. Nothing ever seemed to please her, and she could find fault in a rainbow. Margaret was eighty-five, but honestly, she could keep up with a marathon runner if she wanted.
Margaret lived under the firm conviction that Charlotte owed her the world, simply because her husband had abandoned her for another woman when she was expecting Charlotte. Every ounce of bitterness she possessed was generously dished out at Charlotte, who sadly looked more and more like her father every day.
Charlotte wasnt treated like a daughtershe was more like Margarets personal housekeeper, chef, and slave, but never a loved child. Charlotte worked tirelessly at two jobs. After a long shift, shed come home, mop the floors, cook dinner, and listen to her mother complain. Margaret refused to lift a finger and regularly staged little protests over Charlotte cooking the wrong mealonce, Charlotte even quit her job for the day and dashed across town just to whip up whatever her mother fancied for supper.
One particular day, Charlottes birthday rolled round. We gathered round her tableshed laid out a spread fit for the Queenyet, it was clear Charlotte felt absolutely miserable. She quietly confided that yet another blow-up had occurred with her mother. We all made an early exit, sensing things werent quite right.
The next morning, I got the news: Charlotte was gone. After wed all left, Margaret had launched yet another tirade. Charlottes heart couldnt take it anymore and, heartbreakingly, no one bothered to call an ambulance. She passed in the night. Thats how Margaret managed to rule from her throneeven in the dead of night.
Sometimes you wonder if there should be a medal for surviving mothers like these. Or maybe just a strong cup of tea and a good biscuit.
