Since childhood, I had always been the type to lend a hand, even to those who had wronged me. My mother-in-law, I must confess, was never someone I imagined needing such kindness. Contrary to the tales and jokes at village gatherings, my husband’s mother was a lovely womansoft-spoken, gracious, and gentle.
It was some time ago, during a dreary autumn, when misfortune befell her. She fell gravely ill and spent several weeks in a hospital in London. When it came time for her to recuperate, without a word to my husband, I brought her home. Together, I believed we could care for her in comfort.
I thought my husband would be pleased, seeing his mother well looked after, but the journey back from the hospital was heavy. Lady Margaret, my mother-in-law, seemed downcast, as if she wished to say something but could not seize the courage. Once home, I helped her inside, arranged her bed, and went off to prepare some broth. My hope was to bring cheer to both my husband and Lady Margaret.
Alas, when my husband returned, things fell apart. He walked in, saw his mother resting, and demanded, “What’s that old burden doing under our roof?” He went so far as to insist she leave, and it was all I could do to keep him from forcing her out. If I hadn’t intervened, he would have sent his own mother packing.
Though we are still wed, the disappointment lingers. Id never imagined he would treat his own kin so harshly. Even now, as I recall those days, I wonder how a man could show such disregard for family.
