**When the Mother-in-Law Is the Real Danger**
Vera stood by the window, replaying the evening’s events in her mind for what felt like the hundredth time. A wreath had arrived at their flat—funereal, draped in black ribbon. Her name was etched on it. No note. No explanation. Just silence and a chill creeping from the box.
Her husband, Andrew, barely reacted. He shrugged it off:
“Must be a mistake. Or someone’s sick joke.”
“A mistake?” She stared at him as if he were a stranger.
She knew exactly where it came from. Knew how precisely her address had been written. Knew there was only one person in their lives who’d refused to call her by name for years, who’d openly—and silently—despised her: her mother-in-law.
Margaret Whitmore believed her son deserved better. Someone model-perfect, with lineage like a pedigree dog, and preferably unattached—”less baggage.” And Vera? Ordinary, hardworking, barely five-foot-two, homemade dresses from childhood. But she loved Andrew fiercely.
Margaret wasn’t interested in love. She wanted control. And when she lost it, she retaliated.
At first, it seemed harmless. Snide remarks backhanded compliments, “helpful” criticisms. Then came meddling: dubious “gifts,” mysteriously appearing lingerie in the wardrobe—as if Vera had someone on the side. As if she’d hide anything in a flat where every shelf was scrutinised.
Andrew dismissed it all. Even when Vera found a live adder in the berries Margaret had sent over, he just shrugged:
“Could’ve slithered in from the woods. These things happen.”
Vera locked herself in the loo and cried. Not from fear. From helplessness. Because worse than snakes were the people who pretended to be family while rotting your marriage from the inside.
She endured it. For years. Until the day she caught Andrew with another woman. In their kitchen. Smug, leggy, flawless.
“She came onto me!” he blurted, not even bothering to lie properly.
Vera didn’t argue. Just pointed to the door. And to the wreath—still unpacked, still there. Some messages aren’t meant to be thrown away. They’re brands. Full stops at the end of stories you never wanted to finish.
After the divorce, Vera moved out. He stayed with Mum. Then a neighbour called:
“Did you hear? Your ex mother-in-law remarried. That childhood friend of hers—the one who was always round theirs…”
Vera smirked. Not out of spite. But realisation: her place in that family had never been meant for her. It was never about Andrew. It was Margaret’s game all along.
Now, in her new flat, she glances at the wreath—yes, she kept it—and whispers:
“Thank you. It wasn’t a curse. It was my escape.”
