“No, no, and absolutely not! Dorothy, you must understand—it’s impossible! We’ve got a tiny flat, not even a proper one, just one and a half rooms!” Victor paced the kitchen, flailing his arms like a windmill.
“Oh, don’t be silly, Victor! It’s two whole rooms! The nursery is small, yes, but I’ll fit in perfectly. Emma and little Alfie need help—babies demand so much attention!” His mother-in-law folded her arms over her ample chest, looking at him as though she were doing him a favour by agreeing to stay.
“Mum, we’re managing, really!” Emma interjected softly from the doorway, cradling the baby. “Victor’s right. It’s cramped.”
“Emma, don’t meddle! What do you mean ‘managing’?” Dorothy waved a dismissive hand. “Your eyes are swollen from exhaustion, the bags under them could sink a ship, and you’re as thin as a rake! That’s not ‘managing’—it’s a fast track to divorce!”
Victor stopped dead, took a deep breath, and forced himself to speak evenly.
“Dorothy, Emma and I have been married five years. Never once had a proper row. I doubt a baby will change that.”
“Oh, youth, youth… you think you know everything!” She rolled her eyes. “And what about how irritable women get after childbirth? Who’ll make her bone broth and herbal teas to help with her milk?”
Emma stifled a groan. Once her mother started on broths and herbs, arguing was pointless. Dorothy barrelled on.
“I’ve already packed my things and booked a return ticket for two months’ time. I’ll stay awhile, help you settle in, and we’ll see.”
“Two months?!” Victor and Emma blurted in unison.
Dorothy pretended not to hear and bustled into the hallway where two enormous suitcases stood.
“Victor, be a love and help me move my things into the nursery? Oh, and Alfie’s cot needs shifting into your room. I’ll make do with the sofa—I’m not fussy.”
Victor shot his wife a desperate look, but she could only shrug. Resisting Dorothy’s force of will was near-impossible—especially now, sleep-deprived and wrung out from newborn chaos.
“Fine,” Victor gritted out. “But one month. No more.”
“One month, two—what’s the difference?” Dorothy waved him off. “We’ll see how it goes.”
Emma forced a smile and hurried to feed Alfie, who had started whimpering. Victor trudged after the suitcases.
Dorothy’s arrival immediately upended their routine. She took command of everything—feeding schedules, walks, baths, even a weekly meal plan. She dictated when Victor should work late and when to come home early.
“Victor, this is outrageous!” she scolded one morning as he got ready. “You didn’t iron your shirt? Going to work looking like that? What will your colleagues think?”
“Dorothy, I usually iron in the evening, but you had the telly blaring, Alfie wouldn’t sleep, and I was up half the night rocking him,” he snapped wearily.
“Exactly!” she crowed. “I told you you’d struggle without me! Hand it over, I’ll press it quick. And remember—soap operas are sacred. Forty years of watching them nightly—I can’t break tradition now!”
After a week, Victor felt he was losing his mind. He couldn’t talk to Emma without Dorothy cutting in. He couldn’t cuddle Alfie without her correcting his hold. He couldn’t eat without commentary on every bite.
“Emma, we need to talk,” he whispered while Dorothy was out shopping. “This can’t go on. Your mother’s taken over our lives.”
“I know, but what can I do? You’ve seen her—once she digs in, she won’t budge. If I ask her to leave, she’ll hold it over us forever.”
“So we just live as a trio? A quartet, counting Alfie?” Victor barely kept his temper in check. “This isn’t normal! This is our family, our home, our child!”
“I know,” Emma said miserably. “But she does help. I’m actually sleeping, resting while she takes Alfie out… Maybe we endure it? She did say two months.”
“You really believe that?” Victor scoffed. “I think she’s already planning to sell her flat and move in permanently.”
The front door clicked—Dorothy was back. The conversation died.
Victor changed tactics. If he couldn’t evict her outright, he’d make her want to leave.
First, he stayed late at work, coming home after she’d gone to bed. No luck—Dorothy simply adjusted, waiting up with dinner no matter the hour.
“Victor, really!” she’d tut, sliding reheated shepherd’s pie to him at eleven. “Your family’s here, yet you’re off gallivanting? A man should be with his family.”
“Big project,” he’d mutter, desperate to escape.
Next, he became the worst flatmate imaginable—blaring music she hated, leaving messes, hogging the telly for football over her soaps. But Dorothy was unshakable: she stuffed her ears with cotton, tidied his clutter, and recorded her shows on the ancient VCR she’d brought along.
“Victor, are you waging war on me?” she asked bluntly one day. “Think I don’t notice? Waste of effort, love. I’m patient. And I’m only here for your family’s good.”
Victor had no retort. He’d gone too far, but retreat wasn’t an option.
Then, one morning, he overheard her phone call.
“Yes, Margery, the timing’s perfect!” Dorothy chirped. “Their flat’s adorable, Emma’s hopeless with the baby, and Victor—well, he’ll lump it. I’m thinking of letting my place out! Extra cash, and I’ll stay here indefinitely. The neighbours should thank me—my telly drowns out their crying baby!”
Victor saw red. His suspicions were confirmed—she was settling in for good. Drastic measures were needed.
That evening, while Dorothy cooked, he sneaked into the nursery and riffled through her bags, finding her return ticket—a train leaving in three days. Little time left.
He played the perfect son-in-law that night, agreeing with her, even washing up. Dorothy eyed him suspiciously but said nothing.
Next day, he came home early with flowers.
“For you, Dorothy,” he beamed. “For all your help with Alfie.”
She blinked, taking them grudgingly. “Well, it’s my duty.”
“Dorothy, I’ve been thinking,” he pressed on. “You’ve done so much, yet we haven’t shown you anything. How about a day out tomorrow? The theatre? I’ve got tickets.”
Dorothy perked up. “Oh, Victor, how lovely! What’s the play?”
“Surprise,” he grinned. “You’ll adore it.”
She was practically giddy, critiquing him less than usual. Emma shot him puzzled looks but stayed quiet.
Once Dorothy was asleep, Victor revealed the phone call and his plan.
“Victor, that’s deception!” Emma gasped. “She’ll be furious!”
“And her plotting to live here permanently without telling us—isn’t that deception too?” he countered. “Emma, if we don’t act now, it’ll get worse. Your mum’s wonderful, but she doesn’t belong here. We’re a family. And I’m not doing anything cruel—just sending her home where she’ll be happier.”
Emma wavered but finally agreed.
Next day, Victor hailed a cab, and they “headed to the theatre.” Dorothy chatted merrily about past West End glories—until they pulled up at the train station.
“Why are we here?” she demanded.
“Dorothy, we know you planned to stay,” Victor said calmly. “I overheard your call. We appreciate your help, but…”
“—We need to learn to manage on our own,” Emma finished gently. “Mum, I love you, and we’re grateful, but Alfie’s our child to raise.”
Dorothy’s face purpled with rage.
“So that’s it! You’re booting me out! And here I thought you were taking me to the theatre!” She rounded on Emma. “Ungrateful! After all I’ve done—”
“Mum, don’t,” Emma said quietly. “It’s time you went home. Look—we booked you a first-class ticket, morning arrival, decent carriage-mates.”
Victor silently handed over her original ticket and an envelope.
“Money for a cab home, and groceries being delivered tomorrow.”
Dorothy gaped between them, then snatched the items, muttering.
“We’ll see you to your carriage,” Emma said, guiding her.
To Victor’s shock, Dorothy didn’t make a scene. She just sighed heavily, allowing Emma to lead her.
“Fine, I’ll go”Alright then, I’ll go,” Dorothy muttered, straightening her coat as the train whistle blew, and with one last lingering look at her grandson, she stepped aboard, her stiff upper lip trembling just slightly before she turned away, leaving them standing on the platform, relieved and oddly lighter, the weight of her presence already fading into memory as the train carried her home.
