The Daughter-in-Law Got Her Fired
Margaret Whitmore sat on the bus, gazing out at the familiar streets. Every morning, the same commute to work, the same stops, the same faces of fellow passengers. But today was different. Today would be her last ride.
In her handbag lay a resignation letter, brief and formal. Nothing extraordinary—just standard wording. Yet behind those words lay a story so unbelievable Margaret still struggled to accept it.
The bus halted near the shopping centre where her son’s office was located. The very office where she’d worked as an accountant for four years. The very business Edward had founded fresh out of university, with her help and encouragement.
“Mum, are you sure?” Edward had asked last night when she handed him the letter. “Maybe you should think it over?”
“I’m sure, love,” she’d replied. “It’s for the best.”
Now, climbing the stairs to the office, Margaret felt her chest tighten. Four years of her life, four years of hard work, four years of pride in her son’s success—all slipping away.
It had started the day Edward brought home Sophie. A beautiful girl, sharp, with a degree in economics. Margaret adored her instantly, thrilled her son had found such a worthy partner.
“Mum, this is Sophie,” Edward beamed. “My fiancée.”
“Lovely to meet you, Margaret,” Sophie said, extending a hand. “Edward’s told me so much about you.”
They married a year later. A modest but warm wedding. Margaret baked, decorated, fussed over every detail—she wanted it perfect for them.
After the wedding, Sophie moved in. The flat was small—two bedrooms—but enough. Margaret had always dreamed of a full house, of grandchildren’s laughter filling the rooms.
“Mum, what if Sophie joined the business?” Edward suggested one evening. “She’s got the background—could really help us grow.”
“Of course,” Margaret agreed. “The more bright minds, the better.”
Sophie started as a sales manager. Driven, ambitious, she quickly made an impact. The business expanded, clients multiplied, profits grew.
“Margaret, do you have a moment?” Sophie asked one day, stepping into the accounts office.
“Of course, dear. What is it?”
“I’ve been thinking—perhaps we should modernise the accounts. Switch to new software, automate processes.”
Margaret nodded. She knew the old methods were becoming outdated.
“You’re right, Sophie. But at my age, learning new systems isn’t easy. My memory isn’t what it was.”
“Don’t worry,” Sophie smiled. “I’ll help. We’ll figure it out together.”
And she did. Patiently teaching, repeating explanations. Margaret tried her best, but technology eluded her.
Edward encouraged her too, praising her efforts. Meanwhile, the business thrived. New staff, a larger office, more paperwork than ever.
“Mum, how are you coping?” Edward asked. “Not too much?”
“Managing, love. Though I won’t lie—it’s getting harder.”
Margaret was exhausted. Once, she’d handled everything for a small firm alone. Now, documents piled up. Late nights, taking work home.
“Should we hire another accountant?” Edward suggested.
“Unnecessary costs,” Sophie countered. “Margaret’s experienced—she’ll adapt. It just takes time.”
Yet Sophie’s criticisms grew frequent. Reports late, calculations wrong, filings not up to new standards.
“Margaret, you must be more careful,” she’d say. “Our reputation depends on accuracy.”
“Sorry, dear. I’ll try harder.”
She did. Checking every figure, working late. But mistakes still slipped through. Age wasn’t kind.
“Edward, we need to talk,” Sophie said one evening, unaware Margaret could hear.
“About?”
“Your mum. She can’t keep up. Errors, delays—it’s affecting the whole business.”
“Sophie, don’t exaggerate. Mum works tirelessly.”
“Tirelessly, but inefficiently. Edward, business is business. We can’t carry dead weight, even family.”
Margaret listened, ice in her veins. Dead weight. That’s what she’d become to the girl she’d welcomed as a daughter.
“Mum, how’s work?” Edward asked the next day.
“Fine, love. Why?”
“Just checking. If it’s too much, say so. We’ll help.”
Margaret nodded but stayed silent. She knew Sophie was right. The workload overwhelmed her.
Tax notices arrived, penalties piling up. Sophie made sure to highlight each as Margaret’s fault.
“Another fine, Margaret. Taxes miscalculated again.”
“But I checked—”
“Not well enough. Third this month.”
Edward frowned over reports. Sophie’s displeasure grew vocal.
“We’re losing money, Edward. Fines, delays—this can’t continue.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Hire a proper accountant. Young, sharp, up-to-date.”
“And Mum?”
“She can retire. At her age, it’s normal.”
Sitting at her desk, Margaret felt the world shift. Once indispensable, now a burden.
“Mum, got a minute?” Edward appeared, guilt in his eyes.
“Of course, love.”
He hesitated. “It’s just… the business is growing, regulations tightening. Maybe… a break would do you good?”
Margaret smiled sadly. “You mean resign?”
“Not resign—just… step back. You’ve earned it.”
“Edward, be honest. Sophie thinks I’m failing.”
He looked away. “It’s not Sophie. Accounting needs expertise. And you… you know…”
“I’m old and slow.”
“No! Just… times change fast. Even young people struggle.”
Margaret stood by the window. Below, people hurried—needed, purposeful.
“Alright, Edward. I’ll resign.”
“Mum, don’t think we’re pushing you—”
“I understand, love. Business comes first.”
“We’ll help financially. You know that.”
“I know. Thank you.”
He left. Margaret wrote her resignation, hands trembling. Four years dissolved into a few lines.
That evening, Sophie was unusually sweet.
“Made your favourite, Margaret. Shepherd’s pie.”
“Thank you, dear.”
“Edward said you’re retiring. Wise choice. Time for hobbies now.”
“Suppose so.”
“Maybe babysit? We’re trying for a baby soon.”
Margaret looked up. Grandchildren. She’d dreamed of them. Now it sounded like unpaid labour.
“Of course, Sophie. Happy to help.”
Edward stayed quiet at dinner, stealing guilty glances. Margaret understood—he’d chosen his wife.
“Mum, why not visit Aunt Mabel?” he suggested. “You haven’t in ages. Fresh air, change of scene.”
“Good idea,” Sophie chimed in. “New surroundings help.”
Aunt Mabel lived in the countryside, ten years older, wise from life’s trials.
“Maybe I will,” Margaret agreed.
Next day, she trained her replacement—Anna, twenty-five, eager-eyed. Just as Margaret had once been.
“Edward said you’d show me the ropes.”
“Of course. Let’s start with filing.”
Anna learned fast, asking sharp questions. Youth and education made it effortless.
“What’s in this folder?”
“Old records. Just in case.”
“Electronic copies?”
“Not all. We used paper mostly.”
Anna nodded—patient with outdated ways.
By noon, Margaret packed her things. A corporate photo, a “Best Accountant” mug, Edward’s New Year’s calendar gift.
“Thank you for everything,” Anna said. “Edward said you built this place.”
“Helped at the start.”
“That’s wonderful. You should be proud.”
Proud? Perhaps. The business flourished. That her role ended didn’t matter.
Edward walked her to the bus stop.
“Mum, don’t be angry. I know it’s hard.”
“Not angry, love. Just… life moves on.”
“You say that, but I see it hurts.”
“It does. But not at you. At time. How fast it goes.”
The bus arrived. Margaret waved as it pulled away, Edward shrinking in the distance.
Home was quiet. Sophie out, Edward working late. Margaret made tea, sinking into her armchair.
For the first time in years, she had hours to fill. Books, walks, TV. Yet she wanted none of it.
Just to sit, thinking how swiftly things changed. Once vital, now just a mother, a mother-in-law.
The phone rang. Aunt Mabel.
“Margaret, why so quiet? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Aunt Mabel. Fine.”
“Liar. Tell me.”
She did. Mabel listened, sighing.
“Come visit. We’ll talk properly.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Good. I’ve got space, time. Lonely here.”
Margaret decided to leave next day. Escape the flat where memories lingered.
That evening, Edward and Sophie dronMargaret closed her eyes as the train carried her away, wondering if she’d ever find a place where she still belonged.
