My son wont take his mother to live with him, for there can be just one lady of the house, and that, of course, is me.
Thats not right! Shes his mother! He ought to take her in! So insist the voices of my husbands family, ringing just beyond the parlour door. I know my friends think the same, though none say it straight to my face. It all comes down to the matter of my mother-in-law.
Margaret is 83 and weighs more than sixteen stone, beset with frequent ailments.
Why wont you house Margaret? a cousin asked, years ago. Youre helping daily, but what if something happens at night? She shouldnt be on her own. Your Henry is all shes got.
Of course, its assumed that only son, sole daughter-in-law, and lone grandson should care for Grandma. Five years have passed without Margaret once venturing beyond her flat. Her legs torment her, her weight roots her in place. But it wasnt always this way. Thirty years ago, she was fierce upright and brisk, the matriarch in her immaculate home on the leafy outskirts of Oxford. Her husband held a respectable post, and even after he passed, she managed well.
Whos this youve dragged home? Margaret snapped when her son first brought me round. I gave up everything for you, and for this?
Wordless, I boarded the city bus. Back then, Margaret lived in her grand detached villa, roses blooming in the front garden, the village church visible beyond. Thankfully, Henry never let his mother pull his strings, but he revered his elders. He tried to ease my hurt: Thats just how she is.
After our wedding, Henry and I scraped and saved, working soul-crushing hours toward our first house. He went off to Birmingham for work and was gone half the year. By the time we secured our cottage and fitted it out, we rarely visited Margaret. She spun tall tales for Henry and any distant relative whod listen: you know, my daughter-in-law never lets him help his own mother; scandalous, isnt it?
Margaret decided to leave the countryside and move to the city, but the money from the villa sale barely covered a flat. She asked us to chip in, swearing the place would one day be for our son her only grandson. Yet, at the solicitors, she switched stories: No, the deed should be in my name. My friend Sylvia warned me grandmothers end up homeless this way. Then she threatened to leave the flat to whomever cared for her in old age. I know what youre plotting! Youll toss me out to starve!
That scene in the solicitors office her rasping voice echoing against brass plaques, my cheeks burning haunts me still, though twenty years have crawled by. We let her have her way. She moved in at once, banned us from doing up the place, yet sure enough began to gripe: Everythings ancient. Everythings breaking down. Who found me this dump? It must have been me, plotting something.
She doted on her cousins children, forgetting her real grandsons birthday, pretending even to forget his name. Then, a few years ago, Margaret fell ill. She swelled to such a size she could hardly shuffle to the loo. I brought round doctor-approved meals, plain and healthy. Margaret hurled curses, raving that only her cousin knew how to feed her, that I dined while she starved.
Last year, my husband started pleading, Couldnt she move in with us? Mums changed the doctors have convinced her.
All right, I said, but here are my conditions: the kitchen is mine alone; only I cook, only I choose our meals, and absolutely no cousins dropping by.
My mother-in-law bristled and refused. It was clear she imagined moving in and taking command. But theres only room for one mistress of my house, and thats me. Instead, I made the daily trek: scrubbing, cooking, staying the night if her health demanded. The cousin, meanwhile, phoned now and then, expressing concern but rarely materialising, though she lived three streets away. She dropped by once a month, always bearing sugary treats or greasy sausage rolls, while I spent every day tending to Margaret.
One night, the dream pressed stranger still: Margaret wailed into her old Bakelite phone, Shes starving me; she gives me not so much as a custard cream! She begged the cousin to fetch cake, but the cousin pleaded too busy and promised to visit next week.
Not long ago, Margaret summoned the cousin to tell her that someone had stolen her pearl chain and silver cross. Both of us had visited that day but Margaret was plainly sure Id taken them. I just laid her supper down, and as I picked up a fallen napkin, I spotted the necklace and the cross, simply slipped behind the bedside cabinet. I took them back to her, silent. At home, I told Henry everything.
Thats it, I said. No more. Lets look into a care home.
He just nodded.
And as the dream faded, the walls of the house grew long and narrow, the clocks melted, and the sound of Margarets voice receded down an endless corridor paved with custard creams.
