I detest late-night calls. Decent people don’t ring at such an hour unless something extraordinary has happened. That’s why I always flinch when the phone rings at night, bracing myself for bad news.
I was already drifting into sleep when my husband’s mobile shattered the silence of our bedroom. He sighed and picked it up.
“Unrecognised number,” he muttered, glancing back at me over his shoulder.
“Mute it. If it’s important, they’ll ring back in the morning,” I grumbled, pulling the duvet over my head.
But the phone kept ringing. I exhaled sharply and threw the covers aside.
“Just answer it already!” I snapped, knowing sleep was lost now.
He listened for a long moment before finally saying he’d leave first thing in the morning.
“What?” I sat up, fully awake. “Where are you going?”
“Charlie’s dead. Heart attack. His wife called—she’s asking me to come. I’ll take leave from work tomorrow.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Bloody hell, Charlie… Barely forty…” Ben got up and headed to the kitchen.
At dawn, I saw him off, packing a fresh shirt and razor. I barely knew Charlie, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I debated how to spend my day—tackle the laundry first or scrub the curtains? Weekends never truly existed for women. I decided against cooking. Three days without proper meals wouldn’t hurt. Eggs would do in a pinch. I’d make something nice when Ben returned.
But my plans crumbled before they began. The moment I finished dressing, the doorbell rang. Assuming it was our neighbour, I swung the door open without a thought.
There stood my mother-in-law, Margaret, with her second husband, Geoffrey, looming behind her.
“You don’t seem pleased to see us,” she remarked coolly, studying my face. “We were in the area, thought we’d drop by. But if you’re busy…” She didn’t move an inch, still waiting.
As if she’d ever given us warning before.
“Of course not, come in!” I forced a smile, stepping aside.
“Just a quick visit, isn’t that right, Geoff?” Margaret shed her mink coat with practiced grace. Geoffrey caught it deftly before it hit the floor.
“Don’t take your shoes off—I haven’t tidied yet,” I lied. “You look wonderful, Margaret.”
“And where’s Benny? Working? It’s the weekend—he never rests. You ought to get a proper job yourself. Then he wouldn’t have to slave away on his days off.” Her tone wasn’t just accusing—it was a full-blown indictment of my idleness.
“I do work—from home,” I began weakly.
It was futile. Explaining remote work’s legitimacy to her was like shouting into the void.
Her sharp eyes swept the room, noting the dust on the shelves, Ben’s discarded shirt on the chair—forgotten in the laundry basket.
“New curtains?” she mused. “Lovely, but the old ones were fine. You live beyond your means. New sofa too? What was wrong with the last?” Without waiting for answers, she perched on it, testing its comfort. “A bit bright, isn’t it?”
They say memory fades with age. Hers had only sharpened. Who remembers a house’s curtains from months ago?
Leaving her to critique the furniture, I bolted for the kitchen. Tea wouldn’t suffice—she’d ring every friend tonight, complaining I’d starved her precious boy.
Fridge raided, I found enough for a salad. The freezer yielded a steak—straight into the microwave. While it thawed, I whisked up a quick sponge cake.
Cake in the oven, steak sizzling, I diced vegetables. The smell of baking filled the flat. I half-expected Margaret to appear, sniffing disapprovingly.
A sharp gasp sent me running back. She stood by the cabinet, clutching a delicate porcelain vase—Wedgewood, an heirloom from my grandmother.
“Antiques? Is this how you spend my son’s earnings?” Her glare could’ve withered flowers.
I babbled excuses—a gift, months ago—then remembered the cake. Just in time. Steak flipped, salad tossed, I laid the table with our best china.
“We didn’t come to eat,” Margaret said primly, eyeing the spread.
Geoffrey speared a slice of meat. I’d set out knives, but he bit straight in, sighing blissfully. My heart soared—until her voice cut through.
“Geoffrey! It’s Lent!”
He choked, face twisting as if chewing poison. I froze. Lent. How could I forget?
Trembling, I prepared for the onslaught.
“Ben adores steak,” I stammered. “The local shops only have cod—I couldn’t serve you that!”
Geoffrey quietly finished his portion while Margaret nibbled salad.
“Tea?” I offered brightly, boiling the kettle.
“Black tea’s unhealthy,” she snapped.
“In Lent?” I feigned innocence.
Her glare turned arctic.
Geoffrey reached for more meat, but she intercepted.
“Enough. Your cholesterol.” She shoved a slice of cake at him.
I brewed green tea—bagged.
“Trying to poison me? Those bags are plastic!” she sneered. “Sit down. One cup won’t kill me.”
Miraculously, she drank it without complaint.
They sipped while I sat rigid, terrified of another misstep. Finally, she set her cup down.
“Where’s Benny?”
“Didn’t I say? He’s gone to a funeral. Charlie—his university mate. Widow rang last night.”
“Must’ve missed that. Pity,” she said flatly.
Unclear if she meant missing Ben or Charlie’s timing.
“We won’t keep you. Geoffrey—we’re leaving.” She didn’t move.
Distracting me from what? I’d have rather scrubbed the entire building than endured this.
“Don’t be silly! Always a pleasure,” I simpered, relieved this nightmare was ending.
At the door, she delivered her final blow: “Meat in Lent is unacceptable.”
We air-kissed. Geoffrey shot me a sympathetic look.
The moment the door shut, I collapsed on the sofa.
Two days later, Ben returned.
“You look terrible. Overworked?” he asked after recounting the funeral.
“Your mother visited,” I admitted. “Wished she’d seen you.”
“How’d it go?” He said it like asking after the Queen.
“Perfect. We parted quite satisfied.”
He eyed me skeptically.
Truthfully, I wished he’d seen the performance. But she was his mother—I’d never complain, not when she’d raised such a man. And if she thought me unworthy? Well, she wasn’t entirely wrong. Six years married, no children.
Dinner was steak and potatoes. Oddly, last week’s was better. Over black tea—health risks be damned—I confessed:
“I fed your mother meat in Lent.”
“Did she eat it?”
“God, no. But Geoffrey devoured it.”
Ben threw his head back and laughed.
And that’s why I loved him. He understood. For him, I’d endure Margaret every weekend. After all, I owed her for him. And honestly? I’m no saint either. What mattered was the peace between us.
Happy spring—love, and peaceful skies to all.
