**Diary Entry – A Visit from the In-Laws**
I absolutely detest late-night phone calls. Decent people don’t ring at such an hour unless something dreadful has happened. So whenever the phone buzzes in the dead of night, my stomach knots with dread.
I was nearly asleep when my husband’s mobile shattered the silence. He sighed and grabbed it.
“Don’t recognise the number,” he muttered, glancing back at me.
“Turn it off. If it’s urgent, they’ll ring back in the morning,” I grumbled, burrowing under the duvet.
But the phone kept ringing. With a groan, I flung the covers aside.
“Just answer it, for heaven’s sake!” I snapped, knowing sleep was lost.
He listened for what felt like forever before announcing he’d leave at dawn.
“What?” I sat upright. “Where?”
“Geoff’s dead. Heart attack. His wife rang—asked me to come. I’ll take leave tomorrow. Bloody hell, Geoff…” He rubbed his face. “Not even fifty.” Then he shuffled off to the kitchen.
By sunrise, I’d packed his bag—spare shirt, razor—and waved him off. I barely knew Geoff, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I weighed my options: laundry or dusting? A woman’s work never ends. Cooking could wait—three days without meals might do me good. If desperate, scrambled eggs would suffice. For my husband’s return, though, I’d whip up something proper.
Fate had other plans.
I’d barely freshened up when the doorbell chimed. Expecting the neighbour, I swung the door open—only to find my mother-in-law, Margaret, looming on the step, her second husband, Simon, hovering behind.
“You don’t look thrilled,” she remarked, scanning my face. “We were nearby, so we popped in. But if you’re busy—” She didn’t budge.
As if she ever gave warning.
“Don’t be silly, come in!” I forced a smile, stepping aside.
“We won’t stay long, will we, Simon?” Margaret shrugged off her mink coat with practised drama. Simon caught it mid-air before it hit the floor.
“Keep your shoes on—I haven’t hoovered yet. Lovely to see you, Margaret. You look well.”
“Where’s Jonathan? Working? It’s Sunday—he ought to rest. You should get a proper job, dear. Then he wouldn’t have to slog weekends.” Her tone wasn’t just a jab—it was an indictment of my laziness.
“I do work—from home—”
It was futile. The moment I mentioned remote earnings, her selective deafness kicked in.
Her gaze swept the room, snagging on dust atop the bookshelf and Jonathan’s shirt slung over a chair—I’d forgotten to toss it in the wash.
“New curtains? Pretty, but they weren’t necessary. You’re living beyond your means. And this sofa—what was wrong with the old one?” Without waiting, she perched on it, testing the springs. “Bit firm, isn’t it?”
They say memory fades with age. Margaret’s had sharpened like a blade. Who remembers curtains from six months ago?
Leaving her to critique the furniture, I scrambled to the kitchen, mentally inventorying the fridge. Tea alone wouldn’t cut it—she’d ring her entire bridge club to moan about my hospitality. Or worse, she’d accuse me of starving her precious Jonathan. Not on my watch.
Veggies for salad—good start. I yanked a steak from the freezer and microwaved it into submission, then threw together a quick sponge cake.
Cake in the oven, steak sizzling, I chopped veg like a contestant on *MasterChef*. The scent of baking butter soon lured Simon in, sniffing appreciatively. Margaret, naturally, stayed put—until a shriek rang out.
I dashed back to find her clutching my great-aunt’s Wedgwood vase like Exhibit A.
“An antique! Is this where my son’s wages vanish?” Her glare could’ve wilted roses.
I babbled about it being a family heirloom—then remembered the cake. By some miracle, it hadn’t burnt. I flipped the steak, dressed the salad, and laid the table with our wedding china.
“We didn’t come to eat,” Margaret sniffed, settling in anyway.
Simon speared a chunk of meat with his fork—no knife, no fuss—and practically purred. Pride swelled in my chest—until Margaret’s voice iced over.
“Simon! It’s Lent.”
He choked mid-chew, face contorting as if he’d bitten a lemon.
My stomach plummeted. Lent! I’d forgotten.
“Jonathan adores steak,” I blurted, scrambling for excuses. “The local butcher’s dreadful—only had cod yesterday. I’d have bought salmon if you’d called ahead—”
Simon discreetly polished off his portion while I served Margaret salad—undressed, per her preference. A miracle: she ate a cucumber slice without complaint.
Simon eyed the meat platter longingly until Margaret’s dagger stare made him retreat. Poor man—Jonathan’s dad had fled her years ago. Simon, her childhood sweetheart, had been widowed when they reunited. I almost pitied him.
The kettle whistled. I sliced the cake, serving Margaret first.
“Last time I forgot the cinnamon—taste the difference?” A bald-faced lie; last time, she’d said it needed *more*.
Her brow arched. Seizing the diversion, Simon snatched another steak.
Tea poured, Margaret took a sip—then scowled.
“Black tea’s toxic. Don’t you know anything?”
“Even in Lent?” I feigned innocence.
Simon, emboldened, reached for more meat—until she slapped his wrist.
“Enough. Your cholesterol’s high enough. Give him cake instead—if it won’t give him indigestion.”
I passed Simon a generous slice, then offered green tea.
“Trying to poison me? Bagged tea’s just microplastics!” she snapped. “Sit down. One cup won’t kill me… probably.”
To my shock, she drained it without gagging.
Finally, she set her cup down, cheeks pinker, mood thawed.
“Where *is* Jonathan?”
Same old baby-talk. Jonathan—a grown barrister—hated it. Notice she never used my name.
“Didn’t I say? He’s gone to a funeral. His uni mate Geoff—widow rang last night. Back Tuesday.”
“Must’ve missed that,” she said flatly. “Pity.”
Hard to tell if she meant missing Jonathan or Geoff’s timing.
“Well, we won’t keep you.” She didn’t move.
*Keep me*? I’d rather scrub the house with a toothbrush than play hostess to her unannounced critiques.
“Nonsense! Always a pleasure,” I trilled, counting seconds until departure.
At last, she rose. Simon leapt to hold her coat.
“Tell Jonathan we stopped by,” she said, eyeing the untouched feast.
“Maggie!” Simon chirped from the doorway, coat at the ready.
A torturous ten minutes of buttoning, scarf-tying, and air-kissing later, she delivered her parting shot:
“Meat during Lent is *tacky*.”
Never once had she mentioned piety before. Simon shot me a commiserating look as they left.
I collapsed on the sofa. *Man plans, God laughs*, indeed.
Post-cleanup, I mourned the wasted steak and missed Jonathan fiercely. When he returned two days later, exhausted, he took one look at me.
“Rough time?”
“Your mum dropped in.”
His eyebrows lifted. “How’d that go?”
“Splendidly,” I said, straight-faced. “We parted *mutually* delighted.”
He snorted. Truth was, part of me wished he’d witnessed the circus. But she’d raised the man I loved—for that, I could endure her biannual inspections. If she thought me unfit for him, well, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Six years married, no children—her favourite grievance.
Dinner was steak (less tender than last time) and “toxic” tea.
“Did Mum eat any?”
“Not a bite. Simon demolished it, though.”
Jonathan laughed until his chair creaked.
That’s why I adore him. He *gets* it. For him, I’d tolerate Margaret weekly. Between us, there’s peace—and that’s enough.
**Lesson learned:** No matter how meticulously you plan, life—and in-laws—will always barge in unannounced. Grace under fire is the true test of marriage.
