“If I’m the villain in your mother’s story, then she can jolly well manage on her own. I’m done being her personal assistant!”
Lottie had always bitten her tongue when it came to Margaret Harrington. Her mother-in-law descended upon their London flat two or three times a week, each visit an ordeal. As the September days grew shorter, Lottie’s patience wore thinner.
Margaret adored hosting impromptu dinner parties. She’d arrive with bags of groceries, commandeer the kitchen, and cook enough to feed a football teamalways inviting neighbours, acquaintances, and sometimes total strangers.
“Now, this is what I call hospitality!” Margaret would boom, arranging plates like a general deploying troops. “Not like some people who cant even brew a proper cuppa.”
Lottie would clench her jaw and keep slicing bread. Margaret never named names, but everyone knew who she meant.
At the table, Margaret transformed into a one-woman West End show. Eyes gleaming, voice dripping with drama, shed launch into her greatest hits.
“My nephews wife? Absolute gem!” Margaret would gasp, hands fluttering. “Emilys so crafty! You should see her cross-stitchproper gallery-worthy! Knits, sews, keeps a garden thatd make Monty Don weep. Jams, chutneys, you name it. Home like a flipping Country Living spread!”
Guests would nod approvingly while Lotties cheeks burned. Her husband, James, sat glued to his phone, pretending not to notice.
“And Lucymy cousins wife? Lovely girl,” Margaret continued. “So biddable. Never a cross word. Her mother-in-law lives like royalty. Helps with everything, consults her on every little thing. Now thats proper upbringing!”
One neighbour turned to Lottie. “And what do you do, dear?”
Before Lottie could speak, Margaret swooped in. “Oh, dont bother asking! Our Lotties a modern girl. Office job, glued to a computer. No time for homemaking. Spoilt rotten, reallyused to everyone waiting on her.”
“Im a sales manager,” Lottie said tightly.
“Yes, sales,” Margaret nodded sagely. “And who does everything at home? Poor James works all day, then comes home to cook and clean. Thats our Lottie for you.”
Lotties jaw ached from gritting her teeth. James might as well have been a wax figure for all he contributed.
After one such soirée, Margaret cornered Lottie with a saccharine smile. “Darling, you wouldnt mind popping to the GP with me tomorrow? Need to collect some test results, and its ever so daunting alone.”
“Of course, Margaret,” Lottie said, though she had a client meeting.
“Angel! James is so busy, and your jobs flexible, isnt it?”
Lottie didnt correct her. Easier to swallow the lie than start WWIII.
The following week, Margaret was back. “Be a lovecould you fetch my prescriptions? The chemists got all these newfangled names, and Im hopeless. Oh, and nip to Tesco? My backs playing up.”
Four hours and three pharmacies later, Lottie returned, exhausted.
“Howd it go?” James asked, eyes on the telly.
“Fine,” she snapped.
When Margaret arrived days later with a battalion of relatives, she introduced Lottie like a disappointing museum exhibit. “This is my niece, Beatrice, and her daughter, Sophie.”
SophieLotties age but radiating the smugness of a Victorian matronscanned the flat. “Heard youve a corporate job?”
“Yes, in sales.”
“How progressive!” Sophie trilled. “Im a full-time mum myself. Three darlingsthe eldests at music school, plays violin.”
Margaret beamed. “Now thats a proper woman! None of this office lark.”
Lotties nails dug into her palms.
Later, Margaret murmured, “Honestly, Lottieare you good for anything?”
A plate shattered.
“If Im the villain in your story, Margaret, then you can jolly well manage alone.”
Silence. James finally looked up.
“Lottie, she didnt mean”
“Didnt she?”
When Margaret called weeks later, wheedling for more favours, Lottie said no.
James erupted. “Mums in tears! Have a heart!”
“Respect works both ways.”
A shouting match. Ultimatums.
Lottie pointed to the door. “You and Mum can leave. Now.”
Margaret spluttered. “This is outrageous!”
“Its my flat. Grandmother left it to me. Youre a guest. Guests leave when asked.”
The police arrived. Papers were checked.
“Maam,” an officer told Margaret, “youll need to go.”
James grabbed a suitcase, stunned.
Later, Lottie changed the locks, drank tea in peace, andfor the first time in yearsbreathed.
Margaret tried ambushing her at Waitrose months later, frail and wheedling. Lottie walked past.
No more sacrifices. No more comparisons. Just quiet. And freedom.
When James reappeared, begging her to visit his ailing mother, Lottie smiled.
“No.”
Some doors, once shut, stay shut. And that, she decided, was bliss.
