Bring me some water! My throats bone dry. Ive been shouting for ages and youre still clattering with pans probably on purpose so you dont have to hear me!
The nagging, rough voice from the back bedroom jolts Helen. She nearly drops the ladle. Sighing deeply, she counts silently to ten something shes learned to do after three years in this hell. The kitchen smells like boiled chicken and medication an odd blend seeping into the wallpaper and the curtains. Helen turns off the hob under the stock, pours out a glass of room-temperature boiled water not cold, not hot, as instructed and heads to her mother-in-laws bedroom.
Agatha Smith is propped up on thick pillows, resembling a disgruntled old bird. Her watery, hawkish gaze tracks Helens every movement. On the bedside table, surrounded by an array of pill bottles, medicine packets, and crossword books, sits a thick brown envelope Helen hasnt seen before.
There you go, Mrs Smith, drink up, Helen says evenly, fighting irritation. I couldnt hear you; the extractors been on. Chicken soups ready Ill mash your vegetables just like the doctor said.
Her mother-in-law takes a few tiny sips, pulls a face as if its vinegar, and shoves the glass away.
Always excuses with you, she mutters, dabbing her lips with the bedsheet. Extractor, vacuum, phone calls. And the old man’s mothers just left here to die of thirst.
Dont talk like that, Im always nearby, Helen replies, letting the complaint roll off her. She reaches over to straighten the blanket and catches sight again of the unusual envelope. A corner of a document with an official crest peeks out.
Whats that, Mrs Smith? Something new from the doctor? Helen asks, nodding at the table. Should I have a look in case I need to pop out to the chemist?
Mrs Smiths hand shoots out and covers the envelope more quickly than Helen expects for someone who thirty minutes ago couldnt lift a spoon.
Leave it! she snaps. Its none of your business. My own papers.
Helen is surprised. Usually, her mother-in-law insists Helen checks every medical note, utility bill, even pension letters. This sudden secrecy is a new development.
I was just asking Helen begins, but then the front door slams and heavy footsteps echo in the hallway.
Andys home! Mrs Smiths face transforms instantly a sickly sweet smile appears. Son, come and save me from this jailer!
Andy, Helens husband, walks in. He looks worn down; his suit jacket is creased and his tie sits at an odd angle. He works as a sales manager and has been staying late at the office just to avoid the tense, hospital-like atmosphere at home.
Hi, Mum. Hi, Helen, he mumbles, giving his mum a peck on the cheek and avoiding his wife. Whats happened now? What jailer? Helen looks after you like a child.
She walks after me Mrs Smith purses her lips. Just waiting for me to clear out. You think I dont notice? Her eyes are cold, empty. No love, just duty.
Helen feels a lump of hurt rise in her throat. Three years ago, when Mrs Smith suffered a stroke, they had to decide: carer or care home? They couldnt afford a decent carer, Andy immediately rejected the care home what will people say, putting my own mother away somewhere. So Helen, with a heavy heart, quit her beloved job at the library, moved Mrs Smith from her own two-bed flat into their three-bed home, and they let out the flat to cover medication and rehabilitation costs.
Ill lay the table, Helen whispers and leaves the room.
At dinner, Andy pokes at his cutlet.
Tastes alright? Helen asks, hoping for at least a hint of warmth.
Its fine, he says, eyes glued to his phone. Listen, Helen, Mum wants to invite Lorraine over. Says shes missing her.
Lorraine is Mrs Smiths niece, daughter of her late sister. Shes a loud, over-made-up forty-something who is absolutely useless at home. Every six months she appears, brings a cheap cake, spends an hour telling Mrs Smith about her failed relationships, and disappears leaving behind the lingering smell of sweet perfume and piles of dirty dishes.
Why? Helen asks, surprised. Mrs Smiths blood pressure is up and down she needs peace. Lorraine is chaos. Itll just wind her up again.
Well, Mum insists. Says theres something she needs to sort. Let her come tomorrow, just put up with her for an hour.
The next day Lorraine arrives right at noon. She sweeps into the flat, shoes still on, traipsing over the clean carpet and announces:
Helen, darling! Youve put on a bit, havent you? That dressing gown doesnt flatter. Wheres Aunt Agatha? Brought her a treat!
Shes holding a bag of marshmallow sweets that Mrs Smith is absolutely forbidden due to her diabetes.
Helen quietly points her to the bedroom. Lorraine disappears inside, and an animated whisper quivers out, punctuated by Mrs Smiths sobs. Helen retreats to the kitchen, sorting buckwheat to distract herself. The brown envelope gnaws at her mind.
An hour later, the bedroom door swings open. Lorraine comes out, beaming and clutching that brown envelope, quickly shoving it into her huge handbag.
Well, I must dash, Helen. Business, you know! she chirps. Aunties asleep, dont wake her. Youre good at looking after her, the flats tidy. Though really, curtains could do with changing theyre from last century.
And with that, shes gone as swiftly as she arrived.
That evening, while Helen struggles to change Mrs Smiths bedding a physically demanding job as Mrs Smith weighs plenty and isnt keen to help she finally decides to ask:
Mrs Smith, what papers did you give Lorraine? Should I make copies or drop something off at the council?
Mrs Smith squints shrewdly. Her expression is twisted with a kind of triumphant nastiness.
Ah, Helen, thats just my thanks. Lorraine is the only soul who truly loves me not for the flat, not for inheritance, but for me. Blood is thicker than water.
Helens stomach turns icy.
What flat? Your two-bed is let out the money covers your treatment. We agreed that well, later on, when the time comes, it goes to your grandchildren, our kids.
Mrs Smith laughs, her laughter dry and cawing.
Agreed, did you? Counting your chickens before they hatch! Ive done it differently. The notary came today while you were shopping. Ive signed the flat over to Lorraine. A deed of gift.
Helen freezes with the sheet in her hands. The world tilts.
How gifted? To Lorraine? That Lorraine whos never brought you water? Who couldnt even name your medications?
She never judges! Mrs Smith screeches. You walk around with that sour face like youre doing me a favour! Think I dont notice? Just waiting for me to die so you can grab my flat! Well, tough luck! Lorraines the owner now. Officially. Section 572 of the Civil Code, my dear. Gift deed. Irrevocable.
Helen sinks onto the edge of the chair. Her legs wont hold her. Three years. Three years erased. Needles, pads, temper tantrums, sleepless nights. Quitting her career. And all to be told shes a greedy outsider?
What about Andy? she manages. Does Andy know?
Hell find out in time. My property I give it to who I want. Now go reheat my soup, Im hungry. And sort out my pad, its pinching.
Helen stands up. Her ears buzz. She walks out of the room, grabs her coat, picks up her handbag and leaves the flat. She just cant stay inside any longer. She needs fresh air.
She wanders the streets for two hours, freezing, turning over the same thought: betrayal. Not just from her mother-in-law she never expected love there but Andys betrayal. The notary wouldnt come on his own. Someone must have let him in, someone provided the documents.
When she returns, Andys already home, hunched over the kitchen eating soup directly from the pan.
Whereve you been? he grumbles. Mums yelling, her pads soaking, and youre nowhere. Am I supposed to clean her up? Im a bloke, I cant handle it.
Helen looks at Andy. For the first time in twenty years, she sees him clearly no rosy goggles. Not a beloved husband or pillar, but an immature, selfish figure whos had it conveniently easy.
Andy, Helen says softly. Your mum’s signed the flat over to Lorraine. A gift deed. Did you know?
Andy chokes on his soup, coughing and turning red.
What gift deed? Youre imagining things.
No, Im not. She told me herself. Lorraine took the papers today. The notary came while I was out. Who let him in? Youve got duplicate keys, you could have dropped by at lunch?
Andy averts his eyes and nervously crumbles bread on the table.
Well I did pop round. Mum asked me. Said she needed to sort out the pension papers or something. I let the bloke in, he seemed legit. I didnt get involved, Helen! I had to hurry back to work!
You didnt get involved? Helens voice quavers. Your mums cheated our kids out of their inheritance, handed the flat to some stranger, and you didnt get involved? Whos paying for her medicine now? The rents finishing, Lorraine will take it or sell it. On what money, Andy? Your salary? Will I have to work again to support the woman who spat in my face?
Stop hysterics! Andy pounds the table. Mums ill, her mind might be addled! Well contest it all, get her declared unfit if we have to!
Unfit? Helen gives a bitter laugh. You said she was sharp as a tack when she praised you. And notaries arent fools they probably asked for a certificate. Lorraine thought it through.
Mrs Smiths voice shrieks from the bedroom:
Oi, is anyone alive? Im soaking! Helen! Come and clean me!
Andy winces.
Helen, just go. Well sort things later. Cant leave her in mess.
And something snaps in Helen. The thin thread holding her patience and duty finally breaks. She looks at her red, rough hands hardened by constant cleaning. Thinks when she last went to a hairdresser. Remembers her dream of a holiday by the sea, always postponed where would we leave Mum?
No, she says.
What do you mean, no? Andy asks, baffled.
Im not going. I wont wash her. I wont cook mashed soups anymore. I wont listen to insults. She has a flat owner now Lorraine. Civil Code says gift deeds are irreversible, but conscience says since Lorraine got the asset, she can deal with the responsibility. Ring her. Let her come and do the job.
Are you mad? Andy jumps up. Lorraine wont answer at this hour! She doesnt know how! Helen, its my mother!
Exactly. Your mother. Not mine. And shes given her flat to her niece. Im a stranger. A jailer, as she said.
Helen turns, heads not to Mrs Smith, but to her own bedroom. She pulls out a suitcase.
What are you doing? Andy stands in the doorway, pale and scared.
Im leaving. Back to my mums. Small place, but at least the airs clean.
Helen, stop! Mum was impulsive, made a mistake! Well fix it! Dont leave us! How am I supposed to cope? I work!
Hire a carer. If you can afford it. Oh, right no flat, no rent income. Well, youll have to do it yourself. Evenings after work, nights, weekends. Welcome to my world, Andy.
Helen throws things into her suitcase, jumpers, underwear, books. Tears stream down her face, but she doesnt care. She just wants to get away.
Helen, I wont let you go! Andy tries to grab her hand. Youre my wife! In sickness and in health!
Ive done sick, Andy. Three years of it. Happiness, though never saw any. And by the way, she says, zipping up her suitcase. Im filing for divorce.
Because of the flat? Youre so greedy!
Not because of the flat, you fool! she yells. Because you let them turn me into a slave! Because you opened the door for the notary and betrayed me! Because instead of apologising, youre thinking about wholl clean her up next!
She rolls the suitcase into the hall. Mrs Smith howls from her room:
Andy! Shes left me! Wants to kill me! Give me a drink!
Andy panics, darting between wife and mothers door.
Helen, please at least stay tonight!
Ill leave the keys on the table, Helen says coldly. Goodbye.
She walks out to the landing and calls the lift. Pressing her forehead to the cold mirror inside, she sobs but these are tears of relief.
The first week at her mothers passes in a blur. Helen sleeps twelve hours a night, eats well, strolls in the park. She turns off her phone, buys a new SIM for just close family. Yet word still gets to her.
From a mutual acquaintance, she learns Andy tried ringing Lorraine. Lorraine ignored his calls at first, then declared, A gift is a gift, there are no care obligations in the deed. She admits she plans to sell the flat to expand her business, giving the tenants two months’ notice. She even hints that Mrs Smith ought to be registered for a state-run care home if her son cant manage.
Andy takes unpaid leave. Then sick leave. He phones their son and daughter, both at university in other cities, trying to guilt them into coming home to care for grandma. The kids call Helen.
Mum, Dad says youre a traitor, their son, Adam, says. But we know what you went through. We wont come. Exams and all and anyway, grandma chose Lorraine.
Helens proud of her children. They understand perfectly.
A month passes. Helen returns to her library job. The pays modest, but the peace and smell of books heal her better than any antidepressant. She files for divorce. Andy never shows up at hearings.
One evening, as Helens coming home from work, Andy waits outside her block of flats. He looks ten years older unshaven, filthy shirt, reeking of alcohol and the sour scent of old age Helen knows only too well.
Helen he steps towards her. Help me. I cant cope. She screams non-stop. Lorraines sold the flat already dump deal, barely got anything. Rents gone, cant afford a carer. Ive lost my job
Helen looks at him and feels only revulsion.
Whats that got to do with me, Andy?
You know how You know the routine. Please come back. Ill forgive everything. Well sell Mums flat the one we live in buy something smaller, hire help.
Youll forgive everything? Helen repeats. Youve got it the wrong way round. Its me whos meant to forgive. But I wont.
Helen, she cries for you. Says you make the best porridge and all that.
Shouldve remembered sooner. When you called the notary.
But Lorraines cheated us! Shes a crook!
Lorraine acted how you all allowed. Mrs Smith tried to buy love with square footage. Deals done. Goods handed over. Complaints not accepted.
Youre cruel now, Andy whispers.
Im free now, Helen corrects him. Go home, Andy. And dont come again. Our divorce is next week. Hope its quick.
She walks past him, opens the blocks door.
Helen! he shouts after her. If I put her in a care home state one? Theres a queue, paperwork I dont know how! Help with the forms!
Helen stops. Turns.
Google it, Andy. Youre a manager or were. Work it out. My shift is done.
She closes the door behind her.
Upstairs, she glances out the window. Andy stands below, a small, pitiful figure crushed under the weight of responsibility hed so long thrown onto others. Helen draws the curtains.
The kettle whistles in the kitchen. Her mum is baking cabbage pies.
Who was at the door, Helen? her mum asks, peeping from the kitchen.
Wrong address, Mum. Just the wrong address.
Helen sits at the table, takes a hot pie and bites in. Its delicious. For the first time in three years, food tastes like food. Life goes on, and this time it truly belongs to her. As for Mrs Smith, she got exactly what she deserved her favourite niece with cash, and a son finally learning to grow up, even at fifty. Justice is sometimes served cold, but its still nourishing.
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