Helen stared at the elderly woman standing on her doorstep with a suitcase, hardly believing her eyes. Margaret Whitmore, her former mother-in-law, stood there with the air of someone visiting an old friend.
“Darling Helen,” she began in that drawn-out tone, “I’ve nowhere else to go. Peters moved that whats-her-name Sophie in with him. And I wont impose on young love, you understand? Theyre building their life, and whats an old woman like me to do? Youll let me stay for a bit, wont you?”
Helen silently stepped aside, letting her in. What could she say? Throw a sixty-year-old woman out onto the street? Yes, the divorce had been painful. Yes, Peter had turned out to be the sort of man who, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly “found himself” in the arms of a twenty-five-year-old colleague. But what did any of that have to do with his mother?
“Margaret,” Helen said quietly, closing the door, “I dont understand. You have your own flat. Why stay here?”
“Oh, Helen,” Margaret sighed, settling onto the sofa and untying her shoes, “you know what that place is like. Tiny. Hardly room to breathe. But hereso much space! And Peter mentioned youre alone in this two-bed. Surely you can spare room for an old woman?”
Helen clenched her fists. Of course Peter had said that. How convenientmoving his new girlfriend in while dumping his mother on his ex-wife. And no one cared how she felt.
“Its just temporary,” Margaret repeated, already shrugging off her coat. “Just until I sort things out.”
The first week, Helen tried to be understanding. She made breakfast for two, bought the medicine Margaret “urgently needed,” quietly cleaned up after her. Margaret wasnt the tidiest guestdirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn about, late-night telly blaring.
“Helen, darling,” she said one morning, “my pension is so small. Could you spare a bit for groceries? And my blood pressure pillsIm completely strapped.”
Silently, Helen opened her purse and handed over fifty pounds. Then thirty more for “a new heart supplement.” Then twenty for “a little treat with tea.”
“Margaret,” Helen ventured cautiously a month in, as another request left her wallet nearly empty, “perhaps we should live within our means? Im not exactly rolling in it either.”
Margaret spun around, a familiar fire in her eyes. Helen knew that lookthe prelude to a scene.
“What did you just say?” Margarets voice pitched higher. “Live within my means? How dare you! I welcomed you into this family! Twelve years, I treated you like my own daughter! And now youre throwing pennies in my face?”
“Im not throwing anything, I just”
“What do you know about hardship, childless as you are!” Margaret shrieked, waving her arms. “I raised my son alone after his father passed! Worked three jobs! And now you grudge me my heart pills? Ill tell the neighbours what youre really likeungrateful!”
Helen endured it silently. And the next outburst. And the one after that, over an “unsuitable” dinner. Margaret was a masterhours of shouting, drawing the neighbours attention, hurling accusations.
After another performance, Helen called Peter.
“Come get your mother, please.”
“Dont be dramatic, Helen. Im building a new life. Mums still upset about the divorce. And youve got the spacewhats the harm?”
“The harm is my money, my peace, my sanity.”
“Dont exaggerate. Shes oldshe needs support. If you can help, just help.”
A dial tone. Hed hung up.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Helen knew she couldnt take it anymore. Margaret acted like she owned the place, staged scenes over nothing, demanded money, and never doubted her right to do so.
*She thought Id keep supporting her out of fear. She had no idea what I was really planning.*
The next morning, while Margaret was at the GPs, Helen called a locksmith. The locks were changed within an hour.
That evening, Margaret returned from her usual roundsshopping and complaining to shopkeepersbut her key wouldnt turn.
“Helen! Open this door!” She banged on the wood. “What sort of joke is this?”
Helen stepped onto the landing, calm as she faced the flustered woman.
“No joke, Margaret. Pack your thingsIve called a taxi.”
“What? Have you lost your mind? Where are you sending me?”
“Home. To your son. Where you belong.”
“But I cant! Sophies there! Its not proper!”
“And was it proper for me?” Helen asked, watching Margarets face harden, ready to fight.
“How dare you!” Margaret screeched. “Im an old woman! My hearts frail! You cant do this!”
“I can. Its my flat.”
“Ill tell the neighbours! Everyone will know what youre like!”
“Tell them. I dont care anymore.”
The suitcase was packed quicklyMargaret didnt have much. In the taxi, she sat silent, breathing heavily, occasionally clutching her chest for effect.
At Peters building, Helen helped with the bag. Up to the third floor. A confused Peter answered the door in his pyjamas.
“Helen? Mum? Whats going on?”
“Youre getting your mother back,” Helen said, pushing the suitcase inside. “Margaret no longer lives with me.”
Sophie appeareda pretty blonde in a dressing gownher face falling at the sight of her mother-in-law.
“But she cant stay here!” Peter protested. “Weve only just”
“Started your new life,” Helen finished. “Lovely. Enjoy itwithout me.”
“Helen, you dont understand,” Peter said in that patronising tone. “Mum needs help. Shes elderly, unwell. Her pensions tiny.”
“She has a son. Let him help.”
“But Ive got a new family now!”
“And Ive got a new life. One without your problems.”
Margaret, silent until then, exploded.
“Peter! Look how she treats me! Throwing an old woman onto the streets! Heartless! I loved her like a daughter!”
“Mum, come on,” Peter stammered, panicked.
“Your conscience if you turn her away,” Helen said, turning to leave. “But none of you will ever set foot in my flat again. I wont open the door.”
“Helen, wait!” Peter called after her.
But she was already down the stairs, ignoring the hysterics behind her.
At home, Helen opened her laptop and booked a two-week all-inclusive in Spain. The money shed saved for new furniture would cover itjust what she needed after a month with Margaret.
That evening, Peter called.
“How could you be so cruel? Mums in tears.”
“Let her cry in your flat.”
“But Sophie and Iweve only just moved in together! Dont you get it?”
“I do. Its your problem now.”
“Be reasonable. Well figure something outjust give us time.”
“You had time. A whole month of me funding your mother. Times up.”
She hung up and turned off her phone.
For three days, it rang non-stopPeter, Margaret, even unknown numbers (probably Margarets friends). Helen ignored them all.
On Thursday morning, she sipped coffee by the window, watching children play below. The silence in the flat was bliss after a month of noise and demands.
The doorbell rang. A tearful Sophie stood there.
“Helen, can we talk?”
“About what?”
“Margaret. I know youve had a falling out, but”
“We didnt fall out. I set boundaries.”
“Shes difficult,” Sophie whispered. “She blames me for the divorce. Screams every day. Peters never home, and Im stuck with her.”
Helen almost smiled. A month ago, shed have sympathised. Now, she just shrugged.
“Your family, your problem.”
“Maybe we could take turns or”
“No.”
“But she cant live on the street!”
“She has a flat. And a son. Let them sort it.”
Sophie lingered, hoping for more, but Helen stayed silent.
“I thought youd understand,” Sophie murmured, turning away.
“I do. I understand everyone should solve their own mess.”
By Friday, Helen heard from Mrs. Thompson downstairs that the whole street was gossiping.
“Love, is it true you threw your mother-in-law out?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, but shes elderly!”
“Not too elderly to scream and demand money.”
“But still family.”
“Family respects each other,” Helen said. “Not uses each other.”
Mrs. Thompson nodded thoughtfully. Likely, shed been there too.
On Saturday, Peters final text arrived: *
