A call from my daughter-in-laws phone changed my mind about helping a young couple find a flat
I live alone in a lovely one-bedroom flat right in the heart of London. My husband passed away five years ago, and I inherited a two-bedroom flat from my aunt, located in a less fashionablethough perfectly decentarea. I let that one out to a pair of tidy young tenants, who would come round once a month to collect the rent and give the place a quick look over. Not once in two years had I received a single complaint.
When my son got married, he and his wife, Emily, decided to strike out on their own. They rented their own place and started putting aside a nest egg for a mortgage deposit. I had no objectionthough my long-term plan had been to return the old aunts flat to them, to let them do with it as they pleased: sell, refurbish, or redecorate it however they liked.
A year after their wedding, they had a little boy, and with the arrival of my grandson, I became even more resolved to sign over the flat to my son. Truthfully, only a week ago, Id been set on making it official.
But then I turned sixty. I decided to spoil myself rotten, and threw a splendid party. Booked a private room in a smart restaurant, invited plenty of friends, family, and, naturally, my son and daughter-in-law.
Emily and I generally get on just finethough she does have a rather dramatic streak, prone to flair-ups (not always positive, and sometimes directed at me). I chalk most of it up to her youth and the fact that she hasnt yet learned to leave her baggage at the door. Still, what she did in front of everyone that night seriously shifted my feelings.
My son and Emily arrived at the restaurant, baby in tow. The place was louder than Trafalgar Square on New Years Eve, so Emilys sister-in-law gently warned theyd probably only stay an hour. Fair enough, I thought; what can you do with a baby in tow?
Just as they were getting ready to leave, Emily realised her phone was missing. I, ever the helpful mother-in-law, followed her out, calling her number to help her find it.
Our guests saw us giggling, the mood was a bit tense but beginning to lighten, and thenright on cuea furious growling, barking, howling erupted from a window ledge! Every head whipped round; Emily, bright red and blotchy, dashed over, snatched her phone, and stopped the call.
Everyone staredfrom her, to me, and back againwhile my brother cheerfully seized the chance to restore order. The band struck up another tune, and he led another (possibly slightly more pointed) toast, but, as they say, something stuck in the craw.
For the rest of the evening, I caught guests whispering amongst themselves, clearly debating the, shall we say, highly original ringtone Emily had assigned to my number. The next day, I called my son to demand an explanation. Apparently hed heard my canine impersonation ring tone several times, and thought very little of it.
Since then, Ive decided to put the idea of gifting them the flat on ice until our relationship thaws a little. A simple apology from Emily and my son would be nicejust the basics! If they think of me as a dog, so be it. But honestly, a Sorry about that, Mum wouldnt go amiss.
