Claire stared at the elderly woman with a suitcase planted firmly on her doorstep and blinked in disbelief. Margaret Whitmore, her former mother-in-law, stood there with the air of someone popping round for a Sunday roast rather than an unannounced, indefinite sleepover.
“Darling Claire,” Margaret trilled, already nudging past her, “Ive simply nowhere else to go. Simons moved that whats-her-name Jessica into the flat. And I wont be a burden on young love, will I? Theyre building their future, and whats an old woman to do? Youll let me stay just for a bit, wont you?”
Claire wordlessly stepped aside. What could she say? Toss a sixty-year-old woman onto the pavement? Yes, the divorce had been messy. Yes, Simon had turned out to be precisely the sort of man who, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly “found himself” in the arms of a twenty-five-year-old colleague. But since when did that make his mother her responsibility?
“Margaret,” Claire said carefully, shutting the door, “you have your own flat. Why on earth would you need to stay here?”
“Oh, Claire, love,” Margaret sighed, already flopping onto the sofa and kicking off her sensible shoes. “You know what that poky little place is like. Hardly room to breathe! And herewell, its practically a palace. Simon mentioned youre rattling around this two-bedder all alone. Surely youve space for a harmless old granny?”
Claire clenched her fists. Of course Simon had said that. How convenientshacking up with his new girlfriend while palming his mother off on his ex-wife. Never mind how Claire felt about it.
“Just temporarily,” Margaret repeated, already shrugging off her coat. “Until I sort myself out.”
The first week, Claire tried to be understanding. She cooked breakfast for two, picked up the “urgent” prescriptions Margaret needed, and quietly tidied up after her. Margaret, it turned out, was not the tidiest houseguestdirty dishes piled in the sink, scarves strewn about like confetti, and telly blaring till midnight with her beloved soaps.
“Claire, sweetheart,” Margaret simpered one morning, “my pensions barely enough to keep a budgie fed. Could you spare a few quid for groceries? And my heart tabletssimply must have them.”
Claire silently handed over fifty pounds. Then thirty more for “a new herbal remedy.” Then twenty “just for a little treat with tea.”
“Margaret,” Claire ventured cautiously a month later, as another request left her wallet gasping for air, “perhaps we should stick to a budget? Im not exactly rolling in it either.”
Margaret whirled on her, eyes flashing with the familiar glint of an incoming storm. Claire knew that lookthe prelude to an Oscar-worthy performance.
“What did you just say?” Margarets voice climbed an octave. “A budget? How dare you! I welcomed you into this family like my own daughter! Twelve years, Claire! Twelve years I treated you as blood! And now youre begrudging me a few pennies?”
“Im not begrudging, I just”
“You wouldnt understand, would you?” Margaret shrieked, arms flailing. “No children of your own to worry about! I raised Simon single-handedly after his father passed! Worked my fingers to the bone! And now youd deny me medicine? Ill tell the whole neighbourhood what youre really like! Ungrateful wretch!”
Claire endured the tirade in silence. And the next one. And the one after that, sparked by a dinner Margaret deemed “unfit for a dog.” Margaret was a virtuoso of melodramahours of shouting, neighbour-baiting, and painting Claire as the villain of the century.
After yet another performance, Claire dialled Simon.
“Take your mother back. Now.”
“Claire, dont be ridiculous. Im starting fresh with Jess. Mums still raw about the divorce, and youve got all that space”
“Its costing me money, sanity, and any remaining goodwill.”
“Stop being dramatic. Shes elderly. Needs support. If you can help, why not?”
Click. Hed hung up.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Claire finally snapped. Margaret acted like she owned the place, threw tantrums over toast thickness, and treated Claires wallet as her personal ATMall without a shred of remorse.
“Margaret thought Id fund her out of guilt,” Claire mused, gazing at the drizzly February afternoon outside. “But she had no idea what I was really planning.”
The next morning, while Margaret was off “at the chemists” (a three-hour gossip session at Boots), Claire called a locksmith. The new deadbolt was fitted before lunch.
That evening, Margaret returned from her daily mooch around Marks & Spencer, key jangling uselessly in the lock.
“Claire! Open this door at once!” she bellowed. “Whats the meaning of this?”
Claire stepped onto the landing, arms crossed. “No meaning. Just boundaries. Your taxis downstairs.”
“Taxi? Have you gone mad? Where dyou think youre sending me?”
“Home. To Simon. Where you belong.”
“I cant possibly! Jessicas there! Its inappropriate!”
“And this was appropriate?” Claire asked, watching Margarets face twist from shock to fury.
“How dare you!” Margaret screeched. “Im an old woman! My hearts frail! You cant do this!”
“I can. Its my flat.”
“Ill tell everyone! The neighbours, the postman”
“Tell them. I dont care anymore.”
Packing took minutesMargaret travelled light. The cab ride was silent, save for dramatic sighs and clutched chests. Outside Simons building, Claire hauled the suitcase to his door.
A bewildered Simon answered in joggers. “Claire? Mum? Whats all this?”
“Returning your property,” Claire said, shoving the case inside. “Margaret no longer lives with me.”
Jessica appeared behind him, pretty in a dressing gown, face falling at the sight of her mother-in-law.
“But Mum cant stay here!” Simon spluttered. “Weve only just”
“started your new life,” Claire finished. “Lovely. Enjoy it. Without me.”
“Claire, youre not grasping this,” Simon said, using his talking-to-toddlers tone. “Mum needs care. Shes elderly. Her pensions peanuts.”
“She has a son. Let him care.”
“But Ive got a new family now!”
“And Ive got a new life. One that doesnt include your mess.”
Margaret, silent till now, erupted. “Simon! Look how shes treated me! Thrown out like rubbish! Heartless! I loved her like my own!”
“Mum, come on,” Simon mumbled, but Claire saw the panic in his eyes.
“Evict her if you want,” Claire said, turning to leave. “But none of you will ever set foot in my flat again. The door stays shut.”
“Claire, wait!” Simon called after her.
She was already downstairs, ignoring Margarets wails and Simons sputtering.
Back home, Claire fired up her laptop and booked a fortnight in Spainall-inclusive, funded by the “new sofa” savings. Perfect after a month of Margaret.
That night, Simon rang.
“How could you be so cruel? Mums in tears.”
“Let her cry in your living room.”
“But Jess and I are just settling in! You get that, right?”
“I get that its your problem now.”
“Claire, be reasonable. Well figure something out, but not yet. Give us time.”
“You had time. A whole month of me bankrolling your mum. Times up.”
She hung up and switched off her phone.
Three days of missed calls followedSimon, Margaret, even unknown numbers (Margarets bingo cronies, no doubt). Claire ignored them all.
By Thursday, sipping coffee by the window, she revelled in the silence. No demands, no guilt-trips, just peace.
Then the doorbell rang. A tearful Jessica stood there.
“Claire, can we talk?”
“About?”
“Margaret. I know youve had a row, but”
“I set a boundary.”
“Shes difficult,” Jessica whispered. “Blames me for the divorce. Screams at me daily. Simons never home, and Im stuck with her. The things she says”
Claire almost smiled. A month ago, shed have pitied Jessica. Now?
“Your family, your problem.”
“But maybe we could take turns, or”
“No.”
“She cant live on the street!”
“Shes got a flat and a son. Let them sort it.”
Jessica lingered, hoping for more, but Claire said nothing.
“I thought youd understand,” Jessica murmured, turning away.
“I do. I understand that adults handle their own mess
