The Freeloader. My mother-in-law kicked me and my little one out onto the street. But she had no idea
Oliver finally fell asleep at three in the morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, frozen in an awkward positionmy arm numb, my shoulder achingbut I didnt dare move. The baby was teething, his gums red and sore. He kept shoving his tiny fists into his mouth and crying so hard it shattered my heart.
It felt like he hadnt slept in forever. The moment I tried to shift him into his crib, hed wake up, as if sensing I wanted to escape. Only seven months old, and in that time, Id lived an entirely new life. Love, pain, worry, joyall tangled into a knot I couldnt undo.
When his breathing steadied, I carefully stood. Across the street, a light burned in our dull, grey block of flatssomeone else awake at this hour. I often wondered who it was. Another exhausted mother like me? An old man who couldnt sleep? A couple whispering in the dark? Once, Id dreamed that James and I would buy our own flat, where Id gaze out at our own little garden. But those dreams had dissolved like mist.
Three years behind the till at Tescoall my savings gone. First, the deposit for the mortgage we never got. Then, the money spent renovating this flat we shared with Margaret, Jamess mother. *Itll be cosier,* hed said. But the cosiness was only for them.
From the moment Id stepped through that door with my suitcase and foolish hopes for happiness, Id never felt at home.
*Things will get better,* James promised a year and a half ago. *Well get married in the summer,* he whispered before I got pregnant. *Lets just wait a little longer,* he murmured when Oliver was born. I nodded. Believed. Waited. But a ring on my finger and a name on a certificate seemed like too much trouble.
Margaret jingled her keys every morning as she left for her accounting job. I called her *the terrier* in my headsmall, snappy, nose always in the air. She only spoke to me when necessary, as if I were the temporary help, not the mother of her grandson. If I cooked, shed sneer, *Waste of good food.* If I did laundry: *Thats expensive fabric.* Always with that poisonous smile.
*Sophie, the floors need mopping,* shed say on my one day off. *Sophie, I bought yoghurt for Ollie,* as if I ever accepted her groceries.
Her room was always locked. She rifled through our things when we werent there. Once, I caught her digging through my wardrobe. *Looking for a towel,* she said, without a shred of shame.
The kitchen had its own rules. Her platesseparate. Our platesseparate. Her frying pan, her pots, her whisk. No sharing. If James was late, I ate in my room rather than sit at the table with her.
Still, wed made it workday after day, month after month. Before Oliver, I could escapeto work, to friends, just for a walk. But now? A baby in my arms, twenty quid in my purse, and child benefit barely covering nappies.
I crept into the hallway, my head throbbing from exhaustion. Last night, Oliver had woken at half one and didnt sleep until five. Then, up again at ten. I was a zombie, eyes gritty, body swaying.
The kitchen light was on. Margaret was still awake. I just wanted water, but before I could take a step
*Still not asleep?* She turned, glaring. *Too busy scrolling on your phone? I saw the light under the door.*
*Olivers teething,* I said. *Hes in pain.*
She scoffed. That sound said everythingdisbelief, accusation, *I worked and raised kids at your age.*
*Could you keep it down?* I flinched as she clattered plates. *He just fell asleep.*
Something flashed in her eyes. She hunched over the sink, then
Whirled around. Face twisted, lips thin. She slammed a mug onto the counter.
*Keep it down?* she echoed. *In my own home?*
I leaned against the doorframe. Seven months without proper sleep. Seven months in this tiny flat where every step felt like walking on glass.
*I just asked you not to bang the dishes,* I said quietly.
*Maybe you just dont know how to put a baby to sleep?* She folded her arms. *I raised two. Never had trouble with teething. They slept like angels.*
I clenched my jaw. In the next room, my son was sleeping. But here, in this cramped kitchen, a storm was brewing. No matter what I said, it would be wrong. Stay silentIm a bad mother. Speak upIm causing trouble.
*I just wanted water,* I muttered, stepping toward the sink.
*Of course,* she snapped, not moving. *You always just want something. To lie down, to scroll on your phone. But workoh, thats not for you?*
I froze. *Work?* With a seven-month-old who never slept?
*Ill go back when hes eighteen months,* I said firmly. *Like we agreed.*
*Agreed.* She drew the word out. *My sons made of money, is he? Carrying the household while you spend. Those curtainshow much? And that fancy pram?*
I stared. *Curtains for forty quid? A second-hand pram for two hundred?*
*Speaking of money* Her eyes gleamed. *Have you ever paid a bill? The electric? The rent? Youre a freeloader. No one asked you here. James was fine before you.*
Something inside me snapped. I stood there, numb. I wanted to scream: *Who paid for your bedroom makeover? Who bought your fridge? Where did my savings go?*
But I stayed silent. Swallowed it. For Oliver. For James. For the sake of *keeping the peace.*
*You think I dont notice how you eye my things?* Her voice shook. *Planning to take my son and everything I own?*
I went still. *Her things?* The chipped china she guarded like treasure? The old pans she wouldnt let me use? James and I had nothingjust debt and Olivers cot.
I couldnt hold back anymore.
*I dont. Want. Your. Things.* My voice was steady, though my hands trembled. *Im not here for you. Or this.*
*Then what?* She stepped closer, face contorted. *My son, who youve trapped? The flat youll never get? The money?*
It was like a slap. The air left my lungs. I snapped before I could stop myself.
*For a decent life for my child! The one your son wont provide for! The one *you* claim is bleeding you drywhile he eats food bought with child benefit! And since you care so muchall my savings went into your renovation and the mortgage we never got!*
My own voice sounded foreign. I couldnt remember the last time Id raised it. Maybe never.
*Whats going on?*
James stood in the doorwayrumpled boxers, pillow crease on his cheek, blinking like a confused schoolboy. And thats all he wasa boy in a thirty-two-year-olds body.
Margaret rushed to him. *Jamie, your Sophies shouting at me! And all I did was wash up!*
His gaze flicked from her to me. I knew that look. How many times had I been the villain, no matter the truth? Always wrong. Always that pause before hed say
*Enough,* he hissed. *Cant Mum wash a plate in her own home? I come back from work to this?*
A cry came from the room. Oliver. Woken by the noise. I lunged for the door, but James grabbed my arm.
*Dont walk away when Im talking to you.*
Something inside me clicked. His fingers digging into my skin. My babys cries. Nothing else mattered.
*Let go,* I said calmly. *Olivers crying.*
*Let him cry,* he cut in. *First, explain how you speak to my mother.*
I yanked free. He stepped forward, pinning me to the wall, jabbing a finger into my chest.
*What. Did. You. Say. To. Her?*
I stared into his face. Familiar. Alien. Twisted with anger. Oliver wailed
