Leftover Love: A Tale of a Mother-in-Law, Sister-in-Law, and the Battle for One’s Place

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 7 minViews 2

Again an envelope for them, and only a jar of pickles for us? I recall sitting at my motherinlaws kitchen table, the scent of boiled carrots in the air, while my husband Peter and I faced Helen, his mother, across from us. She had just stepped out of the sittingroom, having handed another envelope stuffed with cash to my sisterinlaw Eleanor. Id seen it through the cracked door. Eleanor beamed, and her husband Thomas could hardly hide his delight.

Emily, would you like a bit more salad? Helen asked, setting a bowl before me. I made it myself, just for you two.

A lump rose in my throat. For you. For them there was always food. For them there were money for holidays, a new motorcar, a house refurbishment. For us there were only jars and a takeaway cake. Am I being ungrateful? Perhaps I should be grateful for what I have.

Peter squeezed my hand beneath the table. I knew the warning in his gesture: Dont start this at the table. Yet I could no longer keep silent.

Mum, did Eleanor get something extra again? I asked softly, but firmly.

The kitchen fell quiet, the only sounds the ticking clock and Thomass fork scraping his plate.

Emily, dont exaggerate, Helen said coolly. I give everyone what they need.

And we dont need anything? Peter tried to interject, but Helen cut him off with a stern glance.

You have everything. Both of you work, you live in the flat that came from my parents. Eleanor has it harder.

Eleanor lowered her eyes, yet a faint triumph flickered on her face. Thomas showed no sign of embarrassment.

I slipped onto the back door balcony, needing fresh air. I thought back to the early years of our marriage, how hard I had tried to be a good daughterinlawbaking pies for Christmas, helping in the garden, ringing on namedays. I always heard, Eleanor does it better, Eleanor has it tougher, Eleanor is so resourceful.

I remembered the Christmas Eve three winters ago. We were all seated when Helen handed Eleanor and Thomas an envelope labeled For a fresh start. We received a jar of homemade lard and a slice of poppyseed cake. Peter tried to joke, Mum, isnt there a fresh start for us? Helen simply smiled, Youve already started.

That was the first moment I felt like a lesser part of the family, as if we were merely an afterthought.

Emily! Peter called from the balcony, stepping out beside me. Please, dont make a scene.

This isnt a scene! I snapped, teeth clenched. This is my life! How long must I pretend everything is fine?

Peter exhaled heavily.

I know its unfair. But what can we do? Shes my mother.

And Im your wife! Tears welled. Have you ever stood on my side?

Peter stayed silent. I knew he loved his mother and didnt want to hurt her, but I could no longer keep up the act.

We returned to the kitchen. Eleanor and Thomas were just about to leave.

Thanks for everything, Mum! Eleanor kissed Helen on the cheek.

See you later! Thomas called over his shoulder, looking at me with a smug air.

We were left alone with Helen.

Emily, I dont understand your attitude, Helen began in a teacherlike tone. Youve always been so grateful for everything.

Maybe Im no longer grateful for scraps, I replied quietly.

Helen furrowed her brows.

I dont get this spite.

Its not spite, I said firmly. Its hurt. I want to feel part of this family, not like the afterthought.

Helen stared at me for a long, cold moment.

Perhaps you should work on yourself, Emily.

Peter and I left without a word. The car ride home was silent.

Later, on the couch, I broke down. Peter tried to pull me close, but I pushed him away.

You dont understand me, I sobbed. You always side with them.

That isnt true! I just I dont want a family war.

And I cant keep fighting inside myself!

The next day Helens mother called.

Emily, how was it at Helens?

I didnt know what to answer. I was ashamed to admit my feelings; I ought to be grateful for what I have. Yet I wondered whether I really had to accept being the lesser one.

A week later Eleanor posted pictures of her new flat on Facebook: Thank you, Mum, for the support! Hundreds of comments followed: Lucky to have such a motherinlaw! Family is a treasure!

Jealousy and sorrow pricked me. That evening I tried to speak to Peter.

Should we maybe limit the visits? I asked hesitantly.

Peter looked at me sadly.

Shes my mother I cant just leave her.

And me?

He fell silent for a long moment.

I dont want to choose between you and my mum

I felt lonelier than ever.

Weeks passed. Each visit to Helens house became a source of stress and humiliation. I began to dodge family gatherings, citing work or ill health. Peter started going to his mothers alone more often. Our conversations grew short and superficial.

One afternoon I received a message from Eleanor:

Emily, could we meet for a coffee? Id like to talk without witnesses.

I agreed reluctantly. We met in a little café on the market square.

I know youre angry with me, Eleanor began bluntly. But its not my fault my mother favours me.

I stared at her.

Did you ever try to change it?

She shrugged.

Maybe I enjoy it a bit But Im fed up too. Mum pits us all against each other. Youre the strong, independent one; Im the poor victim. In truth were both unhappy.

Her honesty surprised me.

Do you think it can be changed?

She shook her head.

Mum wont change. But we can stop playing her game.

I left home with a flicker of hope. That night I spoke to Peter as honestly as I ever had.

Either you stand with me and we set boundaries with your mother, or we live under the same roof as strangers.

Peter was quiet for a long while, then pulled me close.

Im sorry for everything Lets try to change things together.

I dont know what the future holds, but Im certain I will never again allow anyone to convince me that I deserve only the leftovers of love.

Do we really have to choose between loyalty to family and our own happiness? Or can we forge our own path and reclaim our dignity? What would you have done in my place?

Antonia Peterson walked through the rain in tears, her sobs hidden by the downpour—at least the rain keeps my sorrow private, she thought. She blamed herself for arriving at the wrong moment, an unwelcome guest; she cried and then burst out laughing, remembering that joke where a son-in-law asks, “So, Mum, you won’t even stay for a cup of tea?” Now, she found herself living out that “mum’s” predicament—laughing and crying all at once. Returning home, she stripped off her wet clothes and curled under a blanket, finally allowed to weep openly, with only her goldfish in the round aquarium to hear her pain. Once, Antonia was admired by many men, yet things never worked out with Nikita’s father. His drinking worsened—first tolerable, then jealous and violent, even beating her in front of their child. Little Nikita described it all vividly to his grandparents; Antonia’s mother sobbed, while her father calmly sent the now ex-son-in-law flying down the stairs (with a broken arm as souvenir), vowing to protect his daughter no matter the cost. Her husband vanished, and Antonia devoted herself to raising her son, wary of new relationships despite many suitors. She built a comfortable life as a catering manager, gradually saving for a flat, and when Nikita decided to marry lovely Anastasia, Antonia gave the newlyweds the new apartment and even paid for their wedding. She continued saving for a car, reasoning that a growing family needed better than their old banger. Today, Antonia hadn’t planned to visit her son, but caught in a rainstorm near their home, she popped by hoping to wait out the weather and share a cup of tea with Anastasia. However, her daughter-in-law, surprised by the visit, coldly asked, “Is there something you want, Mrs Peterson?” Unwelcome, Antonia left tearfully. That night, she dreamt of her goldfish, grown huge and speaking: “Cry all you want, but they couldn’t even offer you tea in the rain! Why keep saving for their car? Why live only for them? You’re clever, beautiful, and independent—go live for yourself, head for the seaside!” Awakening, she understood: don’t sacrifice yourself for the ungrateful. She took her savings and booked a seaside holiday, returning rejuvenated, tanned, and transformed. Her son and daughter-in-law were none the wiser, only contacting her when they needed money or childcare. Antonia stopped avoiding men, and soon caught the eye of her restaurant’s charming manager; life sweetened, and their relationship blossomed. One day, Anastasia dropped by, hinting about a new car and asking why Antonia hadn’t called or visited. Hands crossed, Antonia replied, “Was there something you wanted, Anastasia?”—just as her new suitor appeared, inviting Antonia to tea and suggesting they welcome their guest. “No, Anastasia’s just leaving. She doesn’t drink tea, do you, Anastasia?” With a laugh, Antonia shut the door and winked at her goldfish. That’s how things are now!

The Promise Dennis confidently steered the car down the motorway, his friend Cyril sitting beside him as they returned from a business trip to a neighbouring city, sent by their boss for a two-day assignment. “Cyril, we handled everything brilliantly, and landed a massive contract—our boss will be thrilled,” Dennis beamed. “Definitely, mate, we got lucky,” Cyril agreed. They worked together in the same office. “It’s great coming home when someone’s waiting for you,” Dennis said. “My Aria’s pregnant and suffering morning sickness. I feel awful for her, but we really wanted a baby—she says she’ll endure anything for our child.” “Having a baby is wonderful. Marina and I haven’t had any luck—she can’t carry to term. We’re trying IVF again—the first go didn’t work out,” Cyril confided. He’d been married to Marina for seven years and longed for a child. Dennis had married late, at thirty-two, after a few relationships that hadn’t meant much—until he met Aria and fell head over heels. For him, there was no one else. When Dennis introduced Cyril to Aria, and Cyril stood as best man at their wedding, he’d felt a twinge of envy. Aria was beautiful and gentle—the sort you fall for instantly. Light autumn rain speckled the windscreen, the wipers clearing it now and then while the friends chatted. Dennis’s phone rang; he picked up. “Hi, Aria, yes, we’re on our way—should be home in a couple of hours. How are you feeling? Still sick? Take it easy, don’t lift anything; I’ll do it all when I get home. Love you, see you soon.” Cyril listened, picturing Aria waiting anxiously for Dennis, and thought about Marina—how she never called, never worried about him, convinced he was devoted to her. She was nothing like Aria; everything in her life was organised—work, home. Suddenly Dennis swerved; a van hurtled towards them. The crash was unavoidable, but at the last second they hit a post on Dennis’s side, spinning off the road. Cyril came to with blood on his arm and a throbbing head. The car was upright, his door open. He saw Dennis—motionless. People rushed over, cars stopped. Cyril lay on the wet grass, aching and disoriented, waiting for an ambulance. Dennis was stretchered away, and as Cyril leaned over, Dennis whispered: “Take care of Aria…” They were taken to hospital. Cyril’s arm was broken, with a severe concussion, but he was conscious, constantly asking the doctors: “How’s Dennis? My friend, is he alright?” Eventually a nurse told him: “Dennis didn’t make it…” Cyril was devastated. He couldn’t attend the funeral, but Marina did, telling him how Aria wept, unable to believe her husband was gone, barely able to stand by his coffin. After his discharge, Cyril and Marina visited Dennis’s grave. Standing in silence, Cyril promised: “Don’t worry, my friend. I’ll look after your wife, as you asked…” Two days later, Cyril called at Aria’s door. Seeing him, she broke down. “How do I live without him? I can’t accept he’s gone.” “Aria, I promised Dennis I’d help you. We’ll get through this together. Call me whenever you need anything—I’ll visit you.” Time passed. Aria recovered a little, terrified her pregnancy might end from grief, as the doctor warned. Cyril visited twice a week—bringing groceries, vitamins, driving her to appointments. Aria never took advantage; only asked if truly necessary. “Cyril, I hate taking up so much of your time.” “It’s no trouble—I promised Dennis.” Cyril felt conflicted—Aria was his dream woman, yet the situation unsettled him. While Aria battled illness, Cyril and Marina faced yet another round of tests and disappointment—childlessness their constant heartache. Marina didn’t know Cyril helped Aria—he’d saved her number in his phone as “Charity,” just in case. After their second unsuccessful attempt, tension built between Cyril and Marina. She blamed Cyril, while he grew indifferent. Marina noticed his behaviour shift—he was distracted, irritable, often out for mysterious errands. Infidelity seemed unlikely; their marriage was untroubled physically. Cyril knew things weren’t right at home, though work flourished. He returned to a project initiated with Dennis, successfully completed and landed another big contract. As Aria’s pregnancy progressed, she grew more helpless. Her parents lived far away in northern Britain; she was alone in the city, plagued by headaches and swollen feet, but rarely complained to Cyril. Once, arriving with groceries, Cyril found her on a stepladder, hanging new curtains. “I’ve just cleaned the window—putting up curtains,” she said cheerily. “Get down, now,” Cyril barked, eyeing her pregnant belly, “If you fall, it’s no joke.” He helped her down, feeling a shudder run through him as they stood close. “Thanks, Cyril,” she said, dashing off as nausea struck. Cyril wiped sweat from his brow, thinking, “Can Dennis see me from wherever he is? This is what he asked.” Later, Aria suggested, “Dennis, would you help me set up the nursery? I found the perfect wallpaper.” Cyril couldn’t let pregnant Aria tackle it alone—so they decorated together (with Aria mostly supporting and providing moral support). Meanwhile, Cyril was torn—between his despondent wife, always talking about infertility, and Aria, now nearing her due date. Marina sensed she needed to stay busy to preserve the marriage and dove into her work, writing for magazines. When she was invited to write a regular column for a prestigious publication, she gladly accepted—her fee was substantial. She returned home delighted, loaded with treats and a couple bottles of wine. “Wow, what’s all this? Are we celebrating?” Cyril asked, arriving home. “Yes, I landed a great contract—let’s celebrate! I’ve waited ages for this.” She laid out snacks; they watched their favourite film and sipped wine. Suddenly Cyril’s phone rang. Peeking over his shoulder, Marina read “Charity” on the screen. Cyril hurried to the kitchen. “What’s happened?” he asked quietly. “Cyril, sorry, but I think I’m in labour… The ambulance is on the way.” “But it’s too early.” “Seven months is possible,” she said, voice tight with pain. “I’ll come to the hospital,” Cyril said. He dressed quickly, Marina watching him anxiously. “You’re leaving?” “Yes,” he fumbled for an excuse, “The boss called about charity—needs me urgently. I’ll explain later. Please believe me…” But Marina was suspicious. “Charity? Bosses don’t call about charity at this hour. Cyril’s lying.” Cyril raced to the hospital, found Aria already admitted. He waited two hours before the nurse told him Aria had delivered a baby boy. Relieved, he returned home, drained and worried. Marina was awake, scrutinising Cyril’s exhausted face. “Your ‘charity work’ has worn you out,” she remarked caustically. Cyril slumped onto the sofa, still in his coat. “Yes, Marina. Yes… Aria had her son tonight. I promised Dennis I’d help her. She’s completely alone,” he confessed. “I see… It all makes sense now,” Marina sighed. “So now you’ll be helping Aria with her newborn too, right?” “Yes,” Cyril replied sincerely. “Well then… you know me, Cyril. I won’t put up with you spending your time on someone else’s child—especially when we can’t have one of our own and likely never will. I’m filing for divorce, and you can do as you like. Maybe I’ll meet someone else and get pregnant.” Cyril met her gaze in surprise—she still blamed him for their infertility. “Your choice, Marina. I won’t argue. I must help Aria and the baby.” Time passed. Marina filed for divorce. Cyril moved in with Aria to support her and baby Danny. In time, they married, and two years later a daughter was born. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and for your support. Wishing you all the best in life!