My mother-in-law “accidentally” locked me in the cellar. An hour later, I walked out with a box whose contents made her fall to her knees.
“I need the pickled mushrooms,” said Evelyn, my mother-in-law, her voice sickly sweet like cough syrup and just as cloying. “Be a dear, Emily, fetch them for me.”
Emily nodded silently, setting aside her book. It was easier to agree. Any refusal, no matter how polite, would spiral into hours of lectures about her ingratitude, selfishness, and disrespect for elders.
For years, shed taken the path of least resistancesilent compliance.
“Just one more weekend,” she told herself, accepting the heavy, old-fashioned torch from Evelyn. James had convinced her to visit his parents while he and his father were out fishing. “Mum gets lonely, keep her company. Youre practically friends.” Practically. If you ignored the daily doses of venom Evelyn injected into her life.
“Theyre at the very back of the cellar,” Evelyn added, and in her eyes flickered that familiar, predatory glint of anticipation.
The creaking wooden door opened into darkness, the air thick with damp earth, rotting vegetables, and the faint scent of mice. This was Evelyns domain, where no one entered without a task.
As Emily descended the rickety, slippery steps, cold seeped through her sweater. The torchlight revealed endless shelves of glass jarspickles, tomatoes, jams. Perfect order. Just like the façade of their “happy” family.
There they werethe mushrooms. At the very back, behind rows of homemade apple juice. She stretched, balancing on her toes.
Thenclick. The sound of a heavy metal bolt sliding into place.
Emily froze, listening. No footsteps above, no floorboards creaking. Nothing. Slowly, understanding dawning, she climbed back up and pushed the door.
Locked.
“Evelyn?” she called, forcing her voice steady. “Could you open the door?”
Silence. She called again, louder. Then pounded on the thick, tarred wood. The sound was muffled, hopeless.
Shed been left here. On purpose. The thought didnt stingit sobered her. This wasnt an accident. It was the culmination of their quiet, exhausting war.
An hour passed. The cold bit deep. Frustrated, Emily paced the cramped space, kicking aside sacks of potatoes. In one corner, she stumbled and braced against an old shelf.
A crack. One of the jam jars wobbled, then shattered on the dirt floor in a burst of sticky syrup and stewed apricots.
Emily stepped back, shining the torch at the mess. And there, hidden behind the shelf, she saw ita patch of lighter, newer wood, free of cobwebs.
Her pulse quickened. Curiosity outweighed fear. She shifted the jars, pried the board loose with her nails.
Inside the niche sat a shoebox, tied with a faded ribbon.
Letters. Dozens of them, in familiar masculine handwriting. She unfolded one.
“My dearest Evelyn,” it read, “every day without you is agony. Has your husband left again? Grant me just an hour Yours always, Charles.”
Charles White. Her father-in-laws best friend. Jamess godfather.
The letters spanned nearly a decade. A decade of secret meetings, passion, and lieswhile James and his father were at work, on trips. Fishing.
Above, the bolt scraped open.
The door swung wide, revealing Evelyn, her face a mask of feigned horror.
“Emily! Good heavens, forgive me! The latch mustve slippedI only just noticed”
She stopped. Her gaze landed on the broken jar, then the box in Emilys hands.
Evelyns face drained of color, turning to stone.
Emily climbed the steps, holding the box like a shield. “You know, Evelyn, I think the contents of this box might change how we speak to each other.”
She walked past her mother-in-law into the house, leaving behind the cellars scent of damp and buried secrets.
The air in the parlour was thick. Emily set the box on the polished coffee tableright on the lace doily Evelyn treasured.
Evelyn followed, shutting the door tight behind her. Her mask of confusion melted into icy rage.
“How dare you?” she hissed. “Snooping through my things”
“Your things? Stored in my temporary prison?” Emily met her glare. “You locked me in. ‘By accident.'”
“Thisthis is slander! Youre just clumsy, breaking my”
“And finding this.” Emily lifted the lid slightly. “Lucky clumsiness, wouldnt you say?”
Evelyn flinched, halfway to snatching the box, then froze. Her predators mind warred with panic. She tried another angle.
“What will you do? Run to James? To Henry? Theyll never believe you. Youre an outsider. Im their family.”
“You really think so?” Emily smiled. “You think James wont recognize his godfathers handwriting? The man who taught him to fish?”
The words hit like a slap. Evelyn swayed, gripping a chair.
“Youyou wouldnt.”
“I will.” Emilys voice was calm, smooth as still water. “Youve left me no choice. Years of your little games, your barbs, your ‘innocent’ requests. You enjoyed every second.”
Evelyns face twisted. “Emily, you dont understandI was so lonely”
“Stop.” Emily cut her off. “Your lifes a performance, but Im not your audience anymore. I dont want excuses. I want one thing.”
Evelyns eyes flickered with hope and fear.
“What? Money? To leave this house?”
“No. Thats too easy.” Emily circled the table. “Im staying. Youre staying. And everything stays the sameon the surface.”
She paused, letting the words sink in.
“But from today, youll treat me with absolute respect. Youll speak to me like Im the most important person in your life. No more jabs, no more games.”
Evelyns lips trembled.
“Or else this box goes to Henry. Right before he comes home from fishing. Let him read how his best friend wrote love letters to his wife.”
Evelyns gaze darted between the box and Emilys impassive face. The full weight of defeat settled over her.
Then, unexpectedly, she sank to her kneesonto the expensive Persian rug.
“Please,” she whispered, raw and trembling. “Dont ruin everything.”
Emily looked down at the pitiful figure. No pity stirredonly cold satisfaction.
“Get up, Evelyn,” she said evenly. “The acts over. I dont want your humiliation. I want your obedience.”
Evelyn, clinging to the chair, struggled to stand.
“What what do I do?”
“First,” Emily nodded toward the kitchen, “youll make me chamomile tea. Two spoons of honey. You remember how I take it?”
Evelyn hesitated, then nodded.
Later, Emily hid the box on the highest shelf of their wardrobe. Her insurance.
The rest of the day passed in surreal quiet. Evelyn was polite, docile, unbearably courteous.
At dinner, James and Henry returned, boisterous with their catch.
“Missed me, love?” James swept Emily into a hug.
Henry set down buckets of fish. “Evening, ladies. Dinner ready?”
Evelyn stepped forward, the perfect hostess. “Of course! Weve been waiting.”
Over the meal, the two women played their parts.
“Emily, darling, try this pieceits the best,” Evelyn simpered.
James raised an eyebrow. “Blimey, Mum! Whats got into you?”
“Weve had a lovely time,” Emily said, locking eyes with Evelyn.
Henry watched silently. He saw his wifes stiff posture, the white-knuckled grip on her fork.
Later, as they cleared the table, Evelyn whispered, “How long will this last?”
Emily didnt hesitate. “Forever. Get used to it, Evelyn. Get used to peace.”
A year later, the charade held.
To the world, they were the picture of harmony. Evelyn baked Emilys favourite scones, deferred to her on everything. James was blissfully oblivious.
Only Henry noticed the changehow his once-sharp wife had dulled.
One evening, as they sorted old photos, Evelyn held one up.
“Look! Its Charles. Remember, Henry? Our dear friend”
Emily took the photo. A young man grinned boldly at the camera.
“Handsome,” she remarked coolly. “Shame I never met him.”
She turned it over. On the back, in elegant script: “To my Evelyn. Forever yours.”
She set it down, face-up.
“Memories are strange,” she said, meeting Evelyns eyes. “Sometimes its best to keep them hidden.”
Evelyn flinched, then tucked the photo away.
Henry lowered
