Laras former mother-in-law had assumed she could leech off her after the divorce out of sheer guilt, but she had no idea Lara had other plans entirely.
Lara stared at the elderly woman clutching a suitcase on her doorstep, disbelief tightening her chest. Margaret Whitmoreher ex-husbands motherstood there with the expectant air of someone dropping by for tea.
“Lara, darling,” she simpered, voice dripping with false warmth, “Ive nowhere else to go. Olivers moved that girlwhats her nameSophie in. And I wont be a burden to young love, will I? Let me stay just a little while?”
Lara stepped aside, letting her in without a word. What could she say? Toss a sixty-year-old woman onto the street? The divorce had been brutal. Twelve years of marriage, and Oliver had woken up one day, decided hed “found himself” in the arms of some twenty-five-year-old from the office. But why should his mother be her problem?
“Margaret,” Lara said carefully, shutting the door, “you have your own flat. Why stay here?”
“Oh, love,” Margaret sighed, flopping onto the sofa and kicking off her shoes, “you know how cramped mine is. This place is spacious, airy. Oliver mentioned you rattling around alone in a two-bed. Surely you dont mind?”
Lara clenched her fists. Of course Oliver had said that. How convenientnew girlfriend in his bed, mother pawned off on his ex. And no one cared how *she* felt.
“Just temporary,” Margaret repeated, already unbuttoning her coat. “Until I sort things out.”
For a week, Lara tried to be understanding. Cooked breakfast for two, bought the “urgent” heart medication Margaret demanded, silently tidied up after her. Margaret was a slobdirty dishes piled in the sink, clothes strewn about, telly blaring late into the night.
“Lara, sweetheart,” she cooed one morning, “my pensions so small. Could you spare a bit for groceries? And my blood pressure pillsIm skint.”
Lara handed over two hundred quid without a word. Then another hundred for “new heart supplements.” Then fifty more for “a little treat with tea.”
A month in, Lara finally snapped. “Margaret,” she said carefully, “perhaps we should live within our means? Im not made of money.”
Margarets eyes flashedthe precursor to a storm.
“Excuse me?” Her voice climbed an octave. “After everything Ive done for you? Twelve years I treated you like a daughter! And now you begrudge me a few quid?”
“Im not”
“You spoiled, selfish girl!” Margaret shrieked, arms flailing. “I raised Oliver alone after his father died! Worked three jobs! And now you balk at medicine for an old woman? Ill tell the neighbors what youre *really* like!”
Lara endured it silently. Then the next tantrum. Then the one over “unsuitable” dinners. Margaret was a virtuosohours of screaming, neighbors gawking, baseless accusations.
After another scene, Lara called Oliver.
“Take your mother. *Now.*”
“Lara, come on. Im rebuilding my life. Shes upset over the divorce, and youve got the space”
“I also have bills, nerves, and a right to peace.”
“Dont be dramatic. Shes elderly. If you can help, *help.*”
The dial tone mocked her.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Lara realized she was done. Margaret acted like she owned the place, hurled abuse, demanded moneyall without a shred of remorse.
*She thought fear would keep me paying. She had no idea what Id do next.*
The next morning, while Margaret was at the GPs, Lara had the locks changed.
That evening, Margaret returned from her usual mooch around the shopskey useless in the lock.
“Lara! Open this door!”
Lara stepped onto the landing, cool as ice.
“No more games, Margaret. Pack your things. The cabs downstairs.”
“What? Have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to go?”
“Home. To your son. Where you belong.”
“ButSophies there! Its awkward!”
“And was it awkward for *me*?”
Margarets face twisted. “You heartless cow! Im an old woman! My heart”
“Youll live. Its *my* flat.”
“Ill ruin you! The neighbors”
“Tell them. I dont care.”
The cab ride was silent save for Margarets theatrical gasps. At Olivers building, Lara hauled her suitcase inside.
Oliver answered in trackies, baffled. “Lara? Mum? Whats this?”
“Your mother,” Lara said, shoving the suitcase at him. “Shes no longer my problem.”
Sophie peered out, paling. “She cant stay here!”
Oliver spluttered. “Werewere starting fresh!”
“Then start. Without me.”
Margaret wailed. “Oliver, look how shes treated me! Thrown out like rubbish!”
Lara turned away.
“Wait!” Oliver called after her.
She didnt look back.
At home, Lara booked a two-week holiday to Spainall-inclusive, paid for with the money shed saved for a new sofa.
That night, Oliver rang. “How could you? Mums devastated!”
“Let her cry in *your* flat.”
“But Sophie and I”
“Your problem.”
The calls kept comingOliver, Margaret, even unknown numbers (Margarets cronies, no doubt). Lara ignored them all.
By Thursday, the silence in her flat was bliss.
Then Sophie showed up, tearful. “Margarets impossible. She blames me for the divorce, screams all dayOlivers never home”
Lara shrugged. “Not my circus.”
The neighborhood buzzed with gossip. “You turned her out?” clucked Mrs. Higgins from next door.
“Had to.”
“But *family*”
“Family doesnt mean being bled dry.”
Olivers final text*Youve changed. Cold. Selfish.*got deleted unread.
Sunday morning, Lara locked up, suitcase in hand. The cab idled outside.
On the plane, champagne in hand, she smiled. Margaret was probably screeching at Oliver and Sophie. Oliver was likely scrambling to pawn her off elsewhere.
And Lara? She was flying toward sun, sea, and the novel thrill of *not caring*.
As the plane descended, she toasted her reflection in the window. Yes, shed changed. Grown harder.
But maybe that wasnt such a bad thing.
