So my ex-mother-in-law showed up out of the blue. Had no idea wed divorced.
“Can you believe it?” Lottie said, pacing the flat. “Margaret has no clue Oliver and I split upand shes on her way here right now.” She tossed her phone onto the sofa and shot her best mate, Tilly, a panicked look.
“Youre joking!” Tilly gasped. “Here? To *this* flat?”
“Thats the problem,” Lottie groaned. “She still thinks were married. Said she misses the grandkids.”
“Why are you so worked up? Shes nothing to you now. Chill.”
“Easy for you to say. Youve never met her. Shes *proper* connected, Tilly. If she thinks Ive been hiding this from her, shell blame me for everything. Then its revenge city.”
“Hold onyou havent spoken in *two years*?” Tilly frowned.
“We fell out after her last visit from Brighton. Massive row.”
“Over Oliver?”
“Among other things,” Lottie muttered. “Nothing was good enough for Margaret. How we hosted her, how we raised the kids the lot. One snide comment led to another, and she stormed off saying she never wanted to see me again. After that, she only spoke to Oliver.”
“And *he* never told her?”
“Course not. Gave him another excuse to slag me off. Said if I didnt respect his mum, I didnt love *him*. Then he vanished for a week before calling to say hed met someone else and we were done.”
“So Olivers let her believe youre still married,” Tilly said slowly.
“Exactly.”
“And shes got no idea he took half the flat, left you with the kids, the cat *and* the dog, and now youre stuck in this tiny place?”
“Bingo. She thinks lifes peachy. Said shes got business in London and needs to stay with us for a week.”
“*Where*?”
Lottie gestured around the cramped room just as the doorbell rang.
“Thats her,” Lottie whispered. “What do I *do*?”
“Tell her the truth,” Tilly said firmly.
“Shell lose it. Scream the place down. Maybe I should pretend Im not in”
“Dont be daft. Thatll make it worse.”
The bell rang again.
“Open it,” Tilly said, nudging her. “Ive got your back. Let her shout. Youve done nothing wrong.”
Lottie took a breath and unlatched the door.
“Hello, Margaret,” she said quietly.
“What took so long?” Margaret snapped, barging in with two suitcases. “Hiding someone?”
“No, just chatting with Tilly.”
“Whos *Tilly*?”
Tilly stepped into the hallway. “Hiya. Lotties best mate.”
Margaret eyed her with disdain. “Wheres Oliver? At work?”
“Suppose so,” Lottie mumbled.
“*Suppose*? You dont know where your own husband is?”
Lottie shrugged helplessly.
“*Ex*-husband,” Tilly cut in.
Margaret froze. “Excuse me?”
“Hes not her husband. Not for a year now.”
For the first time, Margaret looked rattled. “Is this true?”
Lottie nodded. “Since last autumn.”
“Not *that*,” Margaret hissed. “Did he *really* take the flat?”
“Legally, half was his,” Lottie said. “Sold his share straight after. Now hes got a new wifeapparently shes expecting. Said hed sort child support later. Claims works tight.”
“And you *believed* him?” Tilly snorted. “Pull the other one. Bet theres no baby, no marriage, and his work crisis is bollocks. Just a sob story to stiff you.”
“Why wouldnt he tell me?” Margaret muttered.
“Maybe he didnt want to upset you?” Lottie offered weakly.
“Perhaps,” Margaret said, though her eyes narrowed.
The truth? Oliver had a plan.
*Let Mum think were still together*, hed figured. *She loathes Lottie but adores the grandkids. Play that right, and shell bankroll a new place for me.*
So every month, hed ring Margaret with the same spiel:
“Four of us squeezed into a two-bed, Mum. The girls keep asking for their own roomseven wrote to Father Christmas begging for a flat near Camden Market. Bless em. But well manage. Worst case, Emily does her homework at the kitchen table. No, nodont worry about us.”
Then the kicker:
“Course, if you sold the cottage in Cornwall, we could afford a four-bed in London. Checked the pricesitd cover it. But Id *never* ask you to do that. Love that place too much.”
Now, standing in Lotties flat, Margaret pieced it all together.
“I see,” she said coldly. “Where are the girls?”
“Nursery.”
“Where do you work?”
“Remote IT job.”
“And your flatmate?”
“Lovely woman. Divorced too. Doesnt mind the pets. Shes at work.”
“*Lovely*, is she?” Margaret smirked. “Right. Ill be off.”
She left without another word.
“Bloody hell,” Lottie exhaled, sagging against the door. “Thought shed explode.”
—-
Two months later, Oliver finally rang his mum.
“Mum! Hows the cottage? Listen, about selling it”
“Sold it.”
“*What*?”
“Bought a four-bed near Kings Cross. For the *girls*.”
Olivers vision blurred. “Butbut *I*”
“You said they needed space.”
“Why not put it in *my* name?!”
“Because you werent home when I visited. Unlike Lottie.”
—-
Next day, Oliver marched into Lotties new flat.
For twenty minutes, he stalked through the rooms, seething. *This shouldve been MINE.*
“Now, Lottie,” he said smoothly, “since Mums forgiven you, we can remarry.”
“She didnt buy this for *us*.”
“Then who?”
“Emily and Sophie.”
“Same thing. Were getting married. Next Tuesday, Camden Registry Office. Ten sharp. By the lamppostyou remember.”
“Vividly.”
“Dont be late.”
“Wouldnt dream of it.”
Of course, she stood him up.
“You *forgot*?!” he screeched into the phone.
“Terribly sorry,” Lottie said. “Lets reschedule.”
This went on for *six months*.
The registry staff were oddly moved.
“Now *thats* true love,” theyd whisper. “Rain, snow, even that hurricanehes always there by that lamppost.”
One even joked, “If he keels over, we ought to bronze him. Symbol of male devotion, innit?”
But Oliver? Still waiting. Still hopeful. Still *delusional*.
