Late-night phone calls always set my teeth on edge. Decent people don’t disturb others at such an hour unless something truly dire has happened. So whenever the phone rings after dark, I brace myself for bad news.
I was already drifting off when my husband’s ringtone shattered the silence of our bedroom. He sighed and picked up the phone.
“Unknown number,” he muttered, glancing at me over his shoulder.
“Just silence it. If it’s important, they’ll call back in the morning,” I grumbled, burrowing deeper under the duvet.
The phone kept ringing. I sighed and threw the covers back.
“For heaven’s sake, just answer it!” I snapped, knowing sleep was now out of the question.
He listened for a long moment before finally saying he’d leave first thing in the morning.
“What?” I sat up, fully awake. “Where are you going?”
“John’s dead. Heart attack. His wife called—asked me to come. I’ll take leave tomorrow and drive up. Bloody hell, John… not even fifty…” Steven got up and headed to the kitchen.
At dawn, I packed him a fresh shirt and razor, then saw him off. I barely knew John, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I debated my day—tackle the housework first or wash the curtains? Weekends are never a break for women, are they? I decided against cooking. A few days without proper meals wouldn’t hurt. If I got desperate, I’d fry an egg. Once Steven returned, I’d make something proper.
But fate had other plans. Just as I’d tidied up, the doorbell rang. Assuming it was a neighbour, I swung the door open without a second thought.
There stood my mother-in-law, Margaret, with her second husband, Simon, hovering behind her.
“You don’t look pleased to see us. We were in the area and thought we’d drop by. But if you’re busy, we’ll be on our way,” she said—without moving an inch, her eyes scanning my face.
As if she ever gave us warning before visiting.
“Don’t be silly, come in,” I said, forcing a smile and stepping aside.
“Just a quick visit, isn’t that right, Simon?” Margaret said, shrugging off her mink coat. Simon caught it mid-air before it hit the floor.
“No need to take your shoes off—I haven’t hoovered yet. It’s lovely to see you, Margaret. You look well,” I said brightly.
“Is Steven at work? It’s the weekend. He doesn’t look after himself. You really ought to get a job—then he wouldn’t have to slog through weekends.” Her tone wasn’t just critical; it outright accused me of laziness.
“I do work, just from home—” I began, but it was pointless. No matter how loudly I explained remote work paid well, she’d suddenly go deaf.
Margaret’s sharp eyes swept the room, catching dust on the shelves and Steven’s shirt draped over a chair. I’d forgotten to toss it in the wash.
“New curtains? Pretty, but the old ones were fine. You two live beyond your means. New sofa as well? What was wrong with the last one?” Without waiting for an answer, she sat, testing the cushions. “Isn’t it a bit light?”
People say memory fades with age. Not Margaret’s—hers has only sharpened. Who remembers curtains from months ago?
I left her to the sofa and bolted to the kitchen, mentally inventorying the fridge. Tea alone wouldn’t cut it. She’d ring every friend tonight, moaning about my poor hospitality and how I starved her precious boy. Not a chance.
I yanked open the fridge. Veggies for salad—good start. From the freezer, I grabbed a steak and microwaved it to thaw. While it defrosted, I threw together a quick sponge cake.
Cake in the oven, steak sizzling, I diced veggies for salad. The scent of baking filled the flat. I half-expected her to wander in—wishful thinking.
A sharp cry—indignant or delighted?—sent me rushing back. Margaret stood by the china cabinet, clutching a vase from Wedgwood.
“Antiques! Is this how you spend my son’s hard-earned money?” She glared as if I were a cockroach.
I babbled that my grandmother had gifted it—then remembered the cake. I dashed back, yanking the perfectly browned sponge from the oven. Thank God. Flipped the steak, covered the pan, then finished the salad.
Once the meat was done, I laid the table with our best china and called them in.
“We didn’t come to eat—just to see you,” Margaret said, settling at the table. Her gaze flitted between the steak, salad, cake, and back.
Simon forked a crispy slice. I’d set out knives, but he didn’t bother—just bit straight in, eyes closing in bliss. My heart soared—until Margaret’s icy voice snapped me back to earth.
“Simon! It’s Lent!”
He choked, face twisting as if he’d bitten poison. I froze, terrified he’d spit it out. But he chewed and swallowed.
Horror washed over me. How had I forgotten Lent? I steadied myself, ready to face the fallout.
Guiltily, I explained Steven adored my cooking, so I always kept steak handy. The local shop only had cod—was I to serve that to guests?
“Had you called ahead, I’d have bought proper fish,” I simpered.
Simon, meanwhile, eyed another slice.
“Salad, Margaret?” I asked sweetly, desperate to salvage things. At least I’d skipped mayo—she hated it.
She allowed a spoonful, speared a cucumber, and ate it. Miracle—no critique!
Bolstered, Simon reached for more meat—until Margaret’s glare stopped him. He set his fork down, longing plain on his face. Poor man.
Steven’s father had fled Margaret’s iron will when Steven was eight. Years later, at a friend’s party, she’d run into Simon, her first love—now a widower—and remarried him.
I rose, boiled the kettle, sliced the cake, and fetched our wedding china—my mother’s gift. The best slice went to Margaret.
“Last time, I forgot the cinnamon. Taste the difference?” I lied sweetly. Last time, she’d insisted I’d skimped on spice.
“Oh?” She looked up, surprised.
Seizing her distraction, Simon shoveled meat into his mouth.
The kettle whistled. I poured strong tea. Margaret eyed me like I’d handed her poison.
“Too hot? Shall I cool it?” I leapt for the water jug.
“Black tea’s unhealthy. Don’t you know?” she snipped, staring as if I were dim.
“Even in Lent?” I asked innocently.
Her glare could’ve frosted hell.
Simon raised another bite, but Margaret caught his wrist.
“Enough, Simon. Your cholesterol’s sky-high. Give him cake. Hope it doesn’t give him heartburn,” she muttered.
Simon mournfully eyed the steak. I slid him a generous slab of cake.
“Margaret, I’ll make green tea—” I sprang up.
“Trying to poison me? Bagged tea’s full of plastic. Sit! One cup won’t kill me.”
She sipped—didn’t even flinch.
They drank while I sat rigid, praying not to err again. Finally, Margaret set her empty cup down, cheeks pink, mood improved.
“Where’s Steven?” she asked sweetly.
Why she still called her grown son “Stevie” baffled me. Steven loathed it. Notice she never used my name.
“Didn’t I say? He’s gone to a funeral. His uni friend died—widow rang last night. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Ah. Must’ve missed that. Pity.” Her lips pinched.
Whether she mourned missing Steven or his friend’s timing, I couldn’t tell. Silence fell.
“Well, we won’t keep you. Simon, time to go,” she said—without moving.
Keep me? I’d rather scrub the entire street than dance attendance—not that she’d notice.
“Don’t be silly—it’s always a pleasure,” I trilled, relieved this impromptu reality show was ending.
Margaret rose, fixing Simon with a look. I half-expected her to bark, “Heel!” One glance sufficed.
“When Steven’s back, tell him we called.” Her eyes flicked to the barely touched food.
“Mary!” Simon called from the hall, holding her coat ready.
Margaret took ages to dress, then lingered at the door.
“Meat during Lent—really.” Her parting shot.
