No, Mum. Youre not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not next year.a tale of patience finally snapped.
Id racked my brain for a proper opening, but the only words that kept surfacing were arrogance and a silent, resigned agreement. One belonged to my motherinlaw, the other to my husband. And between themme, a woman trying desperately to be kind, restrained and polite. Until the day I realised that if I kept my mouth shut, our house would become nothing more than an empty shell.
I could never understand how someone could walk into anothers home and take what wasnt theirs, as if everything belonged to them by right. My motherinlaw behaved exactly like that, all for her daughter. My husbands sister.
Every visit ended with something disappearing: a slab of meat from the freezer, a pot of meatballs from the stove, even my brandnew hair straightener. I hadnt even used it onceshe just walked off with it, claiming, as I later learned, Graces hair is so curly, and youll be home all day anyway.
I endured it. Until the final test arrived, just before our fifth wedding anniversary. Wed planned a special night out, back at that little restaurant we loved in the old days. Id already picked out a dress, but I still needed the perfect shoes. I bought thembeautiful, expensive, the pair Id been dreaming of since last summer. I left the box on the bedroom floor, intending to slip them on for the celebration.
Everything went wrong.
That morning I was stuck at work late, so I asked John to collect our daughter Emma from preschool. He agreed, then realised he had his own errand and called his mother. He handed her the spare key, saying she could pick up Emma and stay with us for a while.
When I finally got home, the first thing I did was head to the bedroomonly to freeze. The shoe box was gone.
John, where are my new shoes? I asked, already hearing the answer.
How should I know? he shrugged.
Did your mum come over?
Yes, she collected Emma and stayed a bit.
And the key? I tried to keep my voice steady.
I gave it to her. What else could I have done?
I grabbed the phone and dialed her. She answered straight away.
Good evening, I began, as steady as I could. Im sure you know why Im calling.
No, I havent a clue, she replied, not a hint of embarrassment.
Where are my new shoes?
I gave them to Grace. You have far too many shoes anyway, and she doesnt need them for her graduation ball.
She hung up without an apology, without remorsejust a cold click.
John, as always, tried to smooth things over. Well get you a new pair, dont get angry. Its just Mum.
I grabbed his arm and we walked to the shopping centre. In front of a window I pointed at the exact pair Id been eyeing online for monthsshoes that made his face blanch.
Thats half my salary! he blurted, eyes on the price tag.
You said wed buy them. So well buy them, I said, voice flat.
He paid, effectively buying his silence.
The story didnt end there. On the drive home his phone buzzed. A message from his mother: Ill stop by today with grocery bags. No room left in the freezerjust leave them at yours, Ill collect them in a month or two.
I watched him stare at the screen, lips pressed tight. For the first time ever, he dialed her number and said, with a firmness Id never heard before:
Mum, youre not coming back. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a year. Your last help cost us too much.
He hung up. When I looked at him, I finally felt, after so long, that we truly were a familya family whose doors were not left open for thieves, but only for those who earned respect.
