**The Door Will Stay Shut**
*Friday, 10th May*
“Mum, open the door! Please, Mum!” My son’s fists hammered against the metal with such force I thought the hinges might give way. “I know you’re home! Your car’s still here—you haven’t gone anywhere!”
Margaret Ellis sat in her armchair, back to the front door, gripping a cup of cold tea so tightly the china trembled against the saucer.
“Mum, what’s going on?” Ian’s voice grew more desperate. “The neighbours say you haven’t let anyone in all week! Not even Emily!”
At the mention of her daughter-in-law, Margaret winced. *Emily*. His precious Emily, the one he’d do anything for. Even what had happened last Thursday.
“Mum, I’ll call a locksmith!” Ian threatened. “We’ll break the lock!”
“Don’t you dare!” Margaret snapped without turning. “Don’t you dare lay a hand on my door!”
“Mum, *why*? Talk to me!”
She shut her eyes, scrambling for words. How could she explain what she’d overheard at the GP’s surgery?
“Mum, please,” Ian’s voice softened, pleading. “We’re worried. Emily is too.”
*Emily’s worried*. Of course she is. Probably fretting her plans are falling apart.
“Go away, Ian. Don’t come back.”
“Mum, are you ill? Have you got a fever? Let me call a doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I need you to leave me alone.”
Margaret stood and walked to the window. Ian was in the courtyard, phone pressed to his ear—no doubt updating Emily about his “difficult” mother. He looked up, spotted her, and waved before heading back upstairs. She retreated to her chair.
A minute later, another knock.
“Mum, it’s me and Emily. Open up.”
Her jaw clenched. So he’d brought *her*. His wife, the one so carefully plotting their future.
“Margaret,” came Emily’s sugary voice, “it’s me. Please let us in. Ian’s beside himself.”
*What an actress*. Even her tone shifted when it suited her.
“We brought groceries,” Emily continued. “Milk, bread, those ginger biscuits you like.”
*Ginger biscuits*. Margaret smirked bitterly. Last month, Emily had “discovered” she loved them and now brought them every visit. Such a *devoted* daughter-in-law.
“Margaret, say something,” Emily’s voice turned anxious. “We’re frantic with worry.”
“*Frantic*,” Margaret muttered, too quiet for them to hear.
“Mum, I’m not leaving till you open this door!” Ian declared. “I’ll stand here all night!”
She knew he meant it. Stubborn as a mule since childhood.
“Fine,” she relented. “But just you. Alone.”
“What?”
“Emily goes home. I’ll only talk to you.”
Whispers carried through the door.
“Mum, *why*? Emily’s worried too!”
“Because I said so. Just you, or no one.”
More murmuring, then Emily:
“Fine, Margaret. I’ll go. Ian, call me after.”
Margaret waited for Emily’s footsteps to fade before unlocking the door.
Ian rushed in like a storm, hugging her tightly. “Mum, you’ve lost weight! You’re pale as a ghost! Are you ill?”
“I’m not ill.” She pulled away, heading to the kitchen. “Tea?”
“Please.” He sat, watching her closely. “Tell me what’s wrong. Why won’t you open the door?”
She filled the kettle, her back to him. “Why should I? What good’s waiting behind it?”
“Mum, don’t be daft. You can’t hide forever. You’ve errands, appointments—”
“Mrs. Thompson next door shops for me. I leave a list and cash. And I’m not seeing any doctors.”
“Why not?”
She set the teacups down, spooning sugar. “Because last time, I heard something I wish I hadn’t.”
Ian frowned. “What?”
“Your wife. On the phone with her friend. Thought I’d left.”
“What’d she say?”
Margaret sat opposite him, studying his face—those familiar eyes, just like his late father’s. Kind. Honest. Could *he* be part of this?
“She spoke about selling my flat. Putting me in a care home. Spending the money.”
Ian went white. “Mum, you misunderstood. Emily wouldn’t—”
“I heard *every word*,” she cut in. “‘Ian’s already agreed. Says she can’t live alone at her age. We’ll sell the flat, use the deposit for *our* place.’”
“Mum, I never—”
“*Listen*! She said, ‘Thank God she’s naive. Thinks we adore her. Really, she’s just in the way.’”
Ian’s fists clenched on the table.
“I swear, I didn’t know. Emily must’ve been fantasising.”
“Fantasising?” Margaret scoffed. “Then why name the care home on Willow Lane? Quote the valuation—£400,000?”
“She *valued* the flat?” Ian choked.
“Seems so. Or plucked the number from thin air?”
He dragged his hands over his face. “Mum, I knew *nothing*. She never mentioned this.”
“Or you weren’t listening? Maybe she wore you down bit by bit?”
Margaret stood, watching children play outside. Carefree. Happy.
“I’ve been thinking, Ian. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I *am* in the way.”
“*Don’t* say that!”
“What else? You’re crammed in a one-bed, I’ve three rooms. You’re drowning in debt, I’ve savings. I’m old—what if I fall?”
“If you’re lonely, *move in with us*. I’ve asked a hundred times!”
She turned. “And what did Emily say?”
He hesitated. “She wanted us to wait… save for a bigger place.”
“There you are. Meanwhile, I’m just getting older. A burden.”
“You’re *not* a burden.”
“Not to you. To *her*, I’m just the mother-in-law. An outsider.”
She sat again. “Tell me truthfully. Do you want me in a home?”
“No, Mum. Never.”
“Or this flat sold?”
“No. It’s *yours*.”
“Then why’s your wife planning it?”
Ian was silent a long moment. “I don’t know. Honestly.”
“Do you *want* to know?”
“Yes.”
“Then go home and ask her. Straight.”
He nodded, rising. “Mum… will you open the door after?”
“Depends what you learn.”
“And if she *did* plan this?”
Margaret held his gaze. “Then I won’t open it again. Not to her. Not to you.”
“But I’m *innocent*!”
“You’re a grown man, Ian. If your wife plots against your mother and you didn’t notice, you’re a poor husband. If you knew and stayed silent, you’re a worse son.”
He left. The flat was quiet. She wandered, pausing at family photos on the shelf.
Their wedding—young, radiant, in love. Ian’s first steps. His first day of school, clutching a too-big bouquet. Graduation. His wedding.
In that photo, Emily had looked so sweet, hugging Margaret, calling her “Mum,” vowing to cherish the family.
When had that changed? When had Emily decided a mother-in-law wasn’t a blessing, but a chain?
Or had she always been this way, just better at hiding it?
Margaret resumed making dinner—one portion, as she had all week. Chopping potatoes, she thought how swiftly things unravel.
A month ago, she’d brightened at their visits, baked their favourites, stocked treats. Believed her family was *whole*.
Now? Under siege in her own home.
The phone rang as she fried the potatoes. Ian.
“Mum, can I come? We need to talk.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Come.”
She turned off the hob. Ian stood on the doorstep, pale, eyes red.
He spoke haltingly at the kitchen table. “I confronted her. First she denied it. Then confessed.”
“What’d she say?”
“Said she wanted a better life for us. That you… wouldn’t live forever. The money could set us up.”
“I see. The care home?”
“Said you’d be happier there. Less lonely.”
Margaret nodded. “How *thoughtful*. And you?”
“I said I’d *never* agree. That you’re my mother.”
“Her reaction?”
Ian’s voice broke. “She said… then we’re through. She won’t live in poverty for my ‘principlesIan left that night with his suitcase, and as Margaret latched the door behind him, she knew some choices—once made—could never be undone.
