When my husband was away and my mother-in-law dropped in unannounced
I detest late-night phone calls. Decent people don’t ring at that hour unless it’s an absolute emergency. So whenever the phone shrills past midnight, my heart lurches, bracing for bad news.
I was already drifting off when my husband’s ringtone shattered the bedroom silence. He sighed and grabbed his phone.
“Unknown number,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder at me.
“Just mute it. If it’s important, they’ll call back in the morning,” I grumbled, burrowing deeper under the duvet.
But the phone kept ringing. I exhaled dramatically and flung the covers aside.
“Oh, just answer it already!” I snapped, knowing full well sleep was now a lost cause.
My husband listened for what felt like ages, then muttered something about leaving first thing.
“Wait—what?” I sat bolt upright. “Where are you going?”
“Geoff’s dead. Heart attack. His wife called—wants me there tomorrow. I’ll take time off and drive up. Blimey, Geoff… not even forty…” James shuffled off to the kitchen, leaving me blinking in the dark.
At dawn, I packed him a spare shirt and razor (because apparently, men forget these things). I barely knew Geoff, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I weighed my options: vacuum first, or tackle the curtains? Weekends are a myth for women, after all. Cooking was off the menu—three days of fasting might do me good. If desperate, I could always fry an egg. I’d whip up something proper when James got back.
Fate, of course, had other plans.
No sooner had I brushed my teeth than the doorbell chimed. Assuming it was Mrs. Wilkins next door borrowing sugar, I swung the door open—only to freeze.
There stood Margaret, my mother-in-law, with her second husband, Simon, lurking behind her.
“You don’t look pleased. We were in the area and thought we’d pop by. But if you’re busy…” She said this without budging an inch, her hawkish eyes dissecting my expression.
As if she’d ever *warned* us before visiting.
“Don’t be silly, come in!” I forced a smile wider than the M25, ushering them inside.
“Just a quick cuppa, right, Simon?” Margaret shrugged off her mink coat, which Simon caught mid-air like a premier league goalie.
“Don’t mind the mess—I haven’t hoovered yet. Lovely to see you, Margaret. You look radiant.” (Lie number one.)
“Where’s Jimmy? Working? It’s Saturday! That boy never rests. You ought to get a job too—ease his burden.” Her tone wasn’t suggestive; it was an outright indictment of my laziness.
“I *do* work—from home!” I began, but arguing with Margaret was like debating with a brick wall. Her selective deafness was Olympic-level.
Her gaze swept the room, zeroing in on dust atop the bookcase and James’s abandoned shirt on the armchair. (Curse my forgetfulness.)
“New curtains? Pretty, but the old ones were fine. You’re living beyond your means. And this sofa—what was wrong with the last one?” She plopped onto it, testing the springs. “Bit bright, isn’t it?”
They say memory fades with age. Margaret’s had sharpened into a steel trap. Who *remembers* curtains from six months ago?
I fled to the kitchen, mentally inventorying the fridge. Tea alone wouldn’t cut it. She’d ring every bridge club member tonight, lamenting how I’d starved her precious Jimmy. Not on my watch.
Salad veggies—check. I yanked a steak from the freezer (thank you, microwave defrost) and whipped up a Victoria sponge between searing meat and chopping veg. The flat soon smelled like a bakery. Surely the scent would lure her in? Nope.
A shriek from the lounge sent me sprinting back. Margaret clutched a Wedgwood vase like it held state secrets.
“Antique shopping with my son’s hard-earned money?” she gasped, eyeing me like I’d grown a second head.
I babbled about it being a gift from Gran—until the timer beeped. I lunged for the oven, rescued the golden sponge, flipped the steak, and drowned the salad in lemon juice (her one approved dressing).
Plating up, I summoned them with the cheer of a game show host.
“We didn’t come to eat,” Margaret declared, yet her eyes darted between the roast, salad, and cake as she sat.
Simon speared a slice of meat. (I’d laid out knives, but he was a “fork-and-shovel” man.) His blissful chew made my heart soar—until Margaret’s voice iced it over.
“Simon! It’s *Lent*.”
He choked, his face contorting as if he’d bitten a wasp. I froze. *Lent.* Bloody *Lent.*
Trembling, I braced for wrath.
“Jimmy adores my roast,” I fibbed. “The local shops only have cod. Would I serve *cod* to guests?”
Simon, undeterred, polished off his portion while Margaret nibbled salad—approvingly? Miracle of miracles, she swallowed without comment!
Tea was next. I poured Earl Grey.
“Black tea’s *toxic*,” she hissed, as if I’d offered bleach.
“Even in Lent?” I chirped. (Mistake.)
She glared. Simon reached for more beef—Margaret slapped his hand.
“Cholesterol, Simon. Have cake.” He wilted. I slid him the biggest slice.
“Let me brew green tea!” I sprang up.
“Bagged?” She recoiled. “That’s just microplastics! Sit down—one cup won’t kill me.” (She drank it without flinching. Witchcraft.)
Post-tea, Margaret finally asked, “Where’s Jimmy?” (Her babying a 6’2″ man baffled me.)
“Didn’t I mention? He’s at a funeral. His uni mate Geoff died. Back tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Her lips pursed. “Pity.”
For Geoff, or for missing James? The silence thickened.
“Well, we won’t keep you.” (From what? Scrubbing floors with my toothbrush?) She didn’t move.
“*Always* a pleasure!” I trilled, aching for this episode of *Unexpected In-Laws* to end.
At the door, she delivered her finale: “Meat in Lent is *sinful*.” (Since when was she pious?) We air-kissed. Simon shot me a sympathetic wink.
The second the door shut, I face-planted onto the sofa. *Man plans, God laughs.*
Post-cleanup, I sighed at the leftover roast. Two days later, James returned, exhausted.
“You look wrecked,” he said.
“Your mum visited.”
“How’d it go?”
“Swimmingly. We parted *delighted* with each other.”
He eyed me skeptically. Truth was, I pitied him missing the spectacle. But Margaret gave me *him*—so I’d endure her quarterly inspections.
Over steak (strangely tougher than last time’s), he asked, “Did Mum eat it?”
“Simon did. *Enthusiastically*.”
James laughed until his tea went cold.
And that’s why I love him. For him, I’d tolerate Margaret weekly—because between us, there’s always peace. And really, what more matters?
Happy spring, everyone. Love, and calm skies ahead.
