The moment my husband left, his mother showed up unannounced
I’ve always hated late-night calls. Decent people don’t ring at such an hour unless something dreadful has happened. That’s why I always flinch when the phone rings after dark, bracing for bad news.
I was already half-asleep when the shrill tone of my husband’s mobile shattered the quiet of our bedroom. He sighed and picked up.
“Unknown number,” he muttered, glancing at me over his shoulder.
“Turn it off. If it’s important, they’ll call back in the morning,” I grumbled, pulling the duvet over my head.
But the phone kept ringing. I exhaled sharply and threw the covers aside.
“Just answer it, for heaven’s sake!” I snapped, knowing sleep was now hopeless.
He listened for what felt like ages before announcing he’d leave first thing in the morning.
“What?” I was fully awake now. “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…” Mark got up and headed to the kitchen.
At dawn, I helped him pack a spare shirt and razor. I barely knew John, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I weighed my options—tackle the laundry first or scrub the curtains? A woman’s work is never done, especially on weekends. I decided against cooking. Three days without proper meals wouldn’t kill me. If desperate, I’d fry an egg. For Mark’s return, I’d make something nice.
But fate had other plans. Just as I finished tidying myself up, the doorbell rang. Assuming it was the neighbour, I swung the door open without a second thought.
There stood my mother-in-law, and behind her, her second husband, Simon.
“You don’t look pleased. We were in the area and thought we’d drop by. But if you’re busy, we’ll be on our way,” Margaret said—without moving an inch, her sharp eyes dissecting my face.
As if she ever gave us warning.
“Don’t be silly, come in,” I forced a smile, stepping aside.
“We won’t stay long, right, Simon?” Margaret shrugged off her mink coat, which Simon expertly caught before it hit the floor.
“Keep your shoes on—I haven’t cleaned yet. It’s always lovely to see you, Margaret. You look wonderful,” I said, sweetness dripping from every word.
“Where’s my Mark? At work? It’s the weekend! He never rests. You ought to get a job yourself. Then he wouldn’t have to slave away on his days off.” Her voice wasn’t just accusing—it was a full-blown indictment of my laziness.
“I do work—from home—” I began, but it was pointless. No matter how loudly I explained remote jobs paid well these days, she suddenly went deaf.
Margaret’s critical gaze swept the room, catching every speck of dust, Mark’s discarded shirt on the chair—I’d forgotten to toss it in the wash.
“New curtains? Pretty, but the old ones were fine. You live beyond your means. And a new sofa? What was wrong with the last one?” Without waiting for an answer, she perched on the cushion, testing it. “A bit bright, don’t you think?”
They say memory fades with age. Not hers. She remembered every detail of our flat from months ago.
Leaving her to judge the sofa, I bolted to the kitchen, mentally inventorying the fridge. Tea alone wouldn’t cut it. She’d phone every friend tonight, complaining I’d starved her—and her precious Mark, too. Not on my watch.
Vegetables for salad—good start. I pulled frozen beef from the freezer, zapped it in the microwave, then whipped up a quick sponge cake.
Cake in the oven, meat sizzling, I diced veggies. The smell of baking filled the flat. I expected her to appear any second… No such luck.
A sharp cry—indignation? delight?—sent me rushing back. Margaret stood by the china cabinet, clutching a vase from the renowned Wedgwood collection.
“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 months ago—The cake! I dashed back, yanking the golden sponge from the oven just in time. Flipped the steak, lid on, finished the salad.
Dinner served on our best plates, I summoned them.
“We didn’t come to eat, just to visit,” Margaret said, seating herself—yet her eyes darted between the meat, salad, cake, and back.
Simon speared a juicy slice. I’d laid out knives, but he was a straightforward man—no pretence. He bit down, eyes closing in bliss. My heart soared—until Margaret’s icy voice snapped me back.
“Simon! It’s Lent!”
He choked, face twisting as if he’d bitten poison.
I froze. How could I forget Lent? Trembling, I braced for impact.
With a guilty flutter, I explained Mark adored my cooking—hence the steak. The local shop only had cod and haddock. Would I serve guests that?
“Had you called ahead, I’d have bought proper fish,” I simpered.
Simon, meanwhile, eyed another slice.
“Some salad?” I smiled sweetly at Margaret, relieved I’d skipped the mayonnaise—she hated it.
She allowed a spoonful, nibbled a cucumber, and—miracle!—said nothing.
Encouraged, Simon reached for more meat, but her withering stare stopped him cold. Poor man.
Mark’s father had fled her iron will when he was eight. Years later, at a friend’s anniversary, she’d reunited with Simon—her first love, now a widower—and married him.
I brewed tea, sliced cake, presented Margaret the finest piece.
“Last time I forgot the cinnamon, remember? Try it now—you’ll taste the difference,” I lied shamelessly. Last time, she’d insisted it needed more.
“Really?” She eyed me sceptically.
Seizing the distraction, Simon devoured another slice.
The kettle whistled. I poured strong tea. Margaret’s glare could kill.
“Too hot? I’ll add cold water—”
“Black tea is unhealthy. Don’t you know?” Her tone scalded worse than the drink.
“Even in Lent?” I feigned innocence.
Her stare froze me solid.
Simon reached for meat again—she intercepted.
“Enough. Your cholesterol’s high. Give him cake instead. Hopefully, it won’t give him heartburn.”
Simon mourned the steak. I slid him a generous slice.
“Margaret, I’ll make green tea—” I sprang up.
“Trying to poison me? Bagged tea is just plastic. Sit. One cup won’t kill me—I hope.”
She sipped—didn’t even grimace.
They drank; I sat statue-still, terrified of another misstep. Finally, Margaret set her cup down, cheeks pink, mood thawed.
“Where’s Mark?” she asked, almost kindly.
Why she infantilised a grown man baffled me. Mark hated it. Notice she never used my name.
“Didn’t I say? He’s gone to a funeral. His university friend—widow rang last night. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Did you? Must’ve missed it. Pity,” she pursed her lips.
Whether she pitied missing him or his friend’s untimely death, I couldn’t tell. Silence fell.
“Well, we won’t keep you from your chores. Simon, time to go,” she said—without moving.
Chores? I’d have rather scrubbed the entire building than danced attendance on her—who’d barely noticed.
“Don’t be silly! I’m always happy to see you,” I trilled, rejoicing as this impromptu horror show ended.
Margaret rose, and Simon sprang to help her coat.
“Tell Mark we stopped by,” she said, eyeing the barely touched feast.
“Mary!” Simon called from the hall, holding her fur ready.
She took ages to dress, then prolonged farewells at the door.
“Still—meat in Lent is unacceptable.” Her parting shot.
Since when was she devout? We air-kissed. Simon and I exchanged knowing looks.
Door shut, I collapsed on the sofa. Want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans.
Clearing up, I sighed over the wasted steak, missed Mark, scrubbed everything. Peace—until next time.
Two days later, Mark returned. How I’d missed him!
“You look rough. Overworked?” he asked after funeral details.
“Your mother came. Sorry she missed you,” I admitted.
“How’d it go?” He spoke as if inquiring about the Queen.
“Perfect. We parted quite satisfied,” I smiled innocently.
He eyed me sidelong. Truthfully, I wished he’d seen the performance. But a mother’And as he pulled me close, laughing about Simon’s stolen bites of forbidden steak, I realised no mother-in-law, no unannounced visit, no lenten guilt could ever dim the quiet joy of belonging to each other.
