**A Slice at Someone Elses Expense**
*”Put your hand on your heartmy blood pressures through the roof. The doctor says I need expensive medication Youll help your mother, wont you?”*
***
The flat smelled of vanilla and freshly brewed coffeePenelope had just pulled an apple and cinnamon pie from the oven. The golden crust crackled under the knife, filling the kitchen with a warm, comforting scent, as if autumn itself had slipped in through the window. She was carefully arranging slices on fine china plates when the doorbell rangsharp, insistent, like a metronomes beat.
On the doorstep stood her mother-in-law, Margaret Whitmore. Elegant in a cashmere coat the colour of sea foam, her silver hair impeccably styled, she beamed as she clutched a bag from an upscale patisseriethe kind where a single dessert cost as much as a familys weekly grocery shop.
“Penny, darling, hello!” she trilled, arms outstretched for a hug. “I was just passing and thought Id pop in. It smells heavenly in here! Just like my childhood…”
Penelope forced a smile, feeling the familiar tension coil inside herlike a spring about to snap. She knew this visit wasnt accidental.
Margaret had become a persistent presence three years ago, after her husbandOlivers fatherleft her. At first, it was all Sunday roasts and cosy chats over tea. But gradually, the visits multiplied, and the requests grew bolder.
“Ollie, sweetheart,” Margaret would sigh, melodramatically pressing a hand to her chest, “my blood pressures dreadful. The doctor says I need these new pills You wouldnt let your poor mother suffer, would you?”
Oliver, kind to a fault, never refused. At first, it was twenty, fifty pounds. Then a hundred, two hundred. When Penelope tried to reason with him, hed wave her off with a frown:
“Pen, come onshes ill. I cant abandon her. Shes my *mother*.”
Meanwhile, Margaret “forgot” to mention that the pills had already been bought, and the money had vanishedon “vital supplements,” a “miracle treatment,” or an “emergency loan” for a friend.
Then, one day, Penelope stumbled upon a social media post: Margaret, grinning over a cappuccino and a raspberry tart, captioned: *”Sweet treats cure all woes!”*
Penelope frowned. Just yesterday, Margaret had called Oliver in tears: *”I feel awful, darling My pills ran out, and the doctor says I need imported onesthey cost a fortune! I dont know what to do I might as well lie down and die!”*
She showed Oliver the photo. He scrolled, hesitated, then shrugged. “Maybe its old? Or she just needed a pick-me-up. Even ill people deserve joy.”
“Ollie,” Penelope said quietly, “shes spending our money on cafés while were scrimping for a new washing machine. Do you *really* not see the problem?”
That evening, Margaret called, sobbing so loudly Penelope heard it across the room: *”Oliver, Im so lonely Youve no idea how hard this is. And now Pennys turned against meaccusing me of wasting money! All I want is a little warmth”*
Oliver turned on Penelope, jaw tight. “Why are you attacking her? Shes barely holding on!”
“Im not attacking anyone! Im asking you to see the truth. Shes manipulating you!”
“Youre just stingy!” he snapped. “Shes *family*!”
Penelope left without another word, closing the bedroom door behind her. Outside, rain tapped against the window, mirroring the storm in her chest.
***
The next day, Margaret arrived to “make peace,” bearing lilac-wrapped chrysanthemums and saccharine apologies. Her eyes, though, were cool and calculating.
“Penny, I know you worry about budgets,” she murmured, stirring her tea with hypnotic grace. “But caring for elders is sacred. I ask so little”
Penelope gripped her cup until her fingers ached. The teas usual comfort now felt suffocating.
“Margaret, have you considered *we* might need savings too? For the house, holidays, our *future*?”
Margaret gasped, bracelets clinking. “Oh, darling, youre so young You dont understand ageing. Yesterday, I nearly fainted! The doctor said I need vitaminsso dear! And tests! And massages!”
Penelope opened her mouththen Oliver called.
“Mum, where are you?” he fretted.
“At yours, sweetheart,” Margaret crooned, voice softening like silk. “Penny and I are having a lovely chat!”
Penelope stepped onto the balcony. The chill wind was kinder than the cloying flowers and hollow remorse. Below, the city buzzedlights, cars, people living honest lives. Hers, it seemed, was a maze of lies.
***
A week later, Penelope staged an intervention. Receipts, screenshots, and photos covered the coffee table like battle plans.
“Oliver, look,” she said steadily, though her hands trembled. “Heres a pharmacy receipt for £50. Heres your mum at a café the same day. Heres her Im so ill textfollowed by a theatre selfie. Heres a plea for a heater, then a salon appointment…”
Olivers face darkened as he pieced it together. When Margaret next visited, he confronted her.
“Mum, is this true?”
Margaret paled, then clutched her chest, tears glistening (real or not, who could say?). “Darling, the theatres my joy! Is it a crime to want happiness? Im not squandering it allI just want to *feel alive*.”
“You *lied*! Said it was for medicine!”
“I I just wanted you to *remember* me,” she whispered, tears streaking her cheeks. “You never call, never visit I was *lonely*.”
Penelope watched, stomach tight. Margaret played Oliver like a violinbut this time, he didnt falter.
“Enough!” he barked, voice cracking like thunder. “No more games. You *used* me. You made Penny out to be the villainthats *low*.”
Margaret hiccupped into her hands. “You dont understand I didnt mean”
“I understand *perfectly*,” Oliver cut in, steel in his gaze. “Youll get helpbut no more cash. *Ever*.”
***
The following weeks were tense. Margaret cycled between tearful calls and icy silences.
Then, one afternoon, she arrived unannounced. Penelope made tea, studying hersomething unfamiliar flickered in Margarets expression. She sat by the window, chin in hand, watching the rain blur the city.
“You seem sad,” Penelope ventured.
Margaret turned slowly. The mask was gone; only weariness remained. “No. Just thinking.”
Silence lingered, but it wasnt oppressivejust quiet, like a shared blanket.
“Ive been selfish,” Margaret said abruptly, eyes downcast. “When your father left, I felt like I was losing everything. And youyou were so strong. I was *scared*.”
Penelope blinked. It was the first honest thing Margaret had ever said to her.
“Scared?”
“Yes. That Oliver would forget me. The money It was my way of holding on. Stupid, I know. Im sorry, Penny.”
Her voice held no pretencejust regret.
***
Things shifted after that. Oliver still helpeddoctors trips, prescriptions, repairsbut the boundaries held. Penelope no longer flinched at the phone.
Months later, Margaret invited her to the very patisserie from the incriminating photo. This time, she ordered only tea and a modest slice of cheesecake.
“You know,” she mused, stirring her cup, “Ive thought a lot about what you said. About how we all get tired. And I realisedI *was* draining you, instead of giving back.”
Penelope listened. No act, just honesty.
“I was the centre of your fathers world, then Olivers. When he grew up, I couldnt let go. I clung to him like a life raft.”
“Mum.” Oliver appeared, setting a bouquet of wildflowers on the table. “Thought you two might like company.”
Margaret looked up, and for once, her eyes held no calculationjust warmth.
***
Six months on, the flat still smelled of bakingnow a Saturday ritual. Margaret visited fortnightly, no longer a trial.
One day, she brought an old photo album.
“Look,” she said, flipping pages. “Oliver at three. Us at the seaside when he was ten…”
Penelope studied the snapshotssimple, happy, *true*.
“Ive learned something,” Margaret said softly. “Love isnt *taking*
