“You’re Just Jealous” “Mum, are you serious? The Savoy Grill? That’s at least two hundred pounds a head!” Igor tossed his keys onto the shelf so hard they clattered against the wall. Olga turned from the stove, where she was stirring the gravy, and immediately noticed her husband’s knuckles turning white as he gripped his phone. He listened to his mother for a few more minutes, then muttered a curse and hung up sharply. “What happened?” Instead of answering, Igor slumped heavily at the kitchen table, staring at his plate of potatoes. Olga switched off the hob, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and sat down opposite. “Igor…” “Mum’s finally lost the plot. Completely lost it in her old age.” He looked up, and Olga saw a mixture of anger and helplessness in his eyes that made her chest ache. “Remember I told you about this… Victor? From her dancing class?” Olga nodded. Her mother-in-law had mentioned her new friend a month ago – in passing, with a shy smile, fiddling with the edge of the tablecloth. Back then it seemed sweet: a fifty-eight-year-old widow, five years alone, and here was a dance club at the local community centre, a gallant partner who knew how to spin her gracefully in a waltz. “Well.” Igor pushed his plate away. “She’s been taking him to the Savoy Grill. Three times in two weeks. Bought him a designer suit for nearly two grand. Last weekend they went to the Cotswolds, guess who paid for the hotel and tours?” “Mrs. Nichols.” “Bingo.” He ran a hand over his face. “Mum saved that money for years—for house repairs, for emergencies. Now she’s blowing it all on some bloke she’s only just met. Absolutely mental…” Olga paused, searching for words. She knew her mother-in-law well—romantic, openhearted, as trusting as they come. The kind of woman who still believes in true love at fifty-eight. “Listen, Igor…” She covered his hand with hers. “Your mum’s a grown woman. It’s her money, her choices. Don’t get involved; she won’t listen at the moment.” “Ollie, she’s making mistake after mistake!” “Yes. And she has the right to make them. Honestly, I think you’re overreacting.” Igor shrugged but didn’t pull away. “I just can’t watch her…” “I know, darling. But you can’t live her life for her.” Olga stroked his wrist. “She has to be responsible for herself—even if we don’t like it. She’s perfectly capable.” Igor nodded gloomily. Two months flew by. The talk about Victor gradually faded; his mum called less often, speaking evasively as if hiding something. Olga figured the romance fizzled out and stopped worrying. So when the doorbell rang on Sunday evening and Mrs. Nichols appeared on the doorstep, Olga didn’t immediately grasp what was happening. “Darlings! My darlings!” Her mother-in-law swept into the flat, trailing sweet perfume. “He’s proposed! Look! Look!” A ring with a tiny stone sparkled on her finger. Cheap, but Mrs. Nichols looked at it as if it were a massive diamond. “We’re getting married! Next month! He’s so, so…” She pressed her hands to her cheeks and laughed, bright and girlish. “I never thought, at my age… I never thought I’d feel this way again…” Igor hugged his mother, and Olga saw his shoulders finally relax. Maybe things weren’t so bad. Maybe Victor really loved her mother-in-law, and they’d been worrying for nothing. “Congratulations, Mum.” Igor stepped back, smiling. “You deserve happiness.” “And I’ve already put the flat in his name! Now we’re a real family!” Mrs. Nichols blurted out, and time seemed to freeze. Olga stopped breathing. Igor jolted, as if he’d hit a brick wall. “What… what did you say?” “The flat.” Her mother-in-law waved a hand, oblivious to their faces. “So he knows I trust him. That’s love, darlings, real love! And love is built on trust.” They sat in a silence so deep that the ticking clock in the living room sounded thunderous. “Mrs. Nichols,” said Olga carefully, “you transferred the deed to someone you’ve known three months? Before the wedding?” “And?” She lifted her chin. “I trust him. He’s decent, not at all as you think. I know you’re all judging him.” “We’re not judging.” Olga took a step forward. “But maybe you could’ve waited until after the wedding. Why rush?” “You don’t understand. This… this proves my love.” Mrs. Nichols crossed her arms. “What do you know about real feelings? About trust?” Igor finally unclenched his jaw. “Mum—” “No!” She stomped her foot, and suddenly Olga saw not a grown woman, but a stubborn teenage girl. “I don’t want to hear it! You’re just jealous of my happiness! You just want to ruin everything!” Her mother-in-law stormed out, bumping her shoulder on the door frame. The front door slammed, and the glass in the display cabinet shook… The wedding was simple—registry office, a second-hand dress, a tiny bouquet of roses. But Mrs. Nichols beamed as if she were walking down the aisle at Westminster Abbey. Victor—a stocky man with thinning hair and a greasy smile—was the model of the doting groom. He kissed her hand, pulled out chairs, poured champagne. Perfect gent. Olga watched him over her wine glass. Something was off. His eyes. When Victor looked at Mrs. Nichols, his pupils stayed cold, calculating. Professional affection. Polished concern. She said nothing. What was the point if no one would listen? For the first months, Mrs. Nichols rang weekly—bubbling with joy, listing all the restaurants and theatres her wonderful husband took her to. “He’s so thoughtful! He brought me roses—just because!” Igor listened and nodded, then hung up and sat in silence, staring into space. Olga kept quiet, and waited. A year slipped by. Then—a knock at the door… Olga opened it and barely recognised the woman standing there. Her mother-in-law had aged ten years overnight: deeper lines, sunken eyes, stooped shoulders. In her hand was a battered suitcase—the same one she’d once taken for their little Cotswolds trip. “He threw me out,” Mrs. Nichols gulped. “Filed for divorce and kicked me out. The flat… it legally belongs to him, now.” Olga quietly stepped aside to let her in. The kettle boiled quickly. Mrs. Nichols sat in the armchair, clutching her mug in both hands, weeping—quietly, hopelessly. “I loved him so much. I did everything for him. And he…” Olga didn’t interrupt. She just stroked her mother-in-law’s back and waited for the tears to subside. Igor returned home an hour later. He stopped at the door, saw his mother, and his face hardened. “Son.” Mrs. Nichols stood, reaching out to him. “Darling, I’ve nowhere to go… You won’t turn me out, will you? Just a room, I won’t take up much space. Children should look after their parents, surely…” “Stop.” Igor raised a hand. “Stop, Mum.” “I have no money. Not a penny left. I spent it all on him, every bit. My pension’s tiny, you know that…” “I warned you.” “What?” “I warned you,” Igor sat down heavily, as though the weight of the world pressed on his shoulders. “I told you: don’t rush. I told you: get to know him. I told you: don’t put the flat in his name. Remember what you said to me?” Mrs. Nichols dropped her gaze. “That I don’t understand real love. That I’m jealous of your happiness. I remember perfectly well, Mum!” “Igor…” Olga tried to interject, but Igor shook his head. “No. Let her hear this.” He turned to his mother. “You’re a grown woman. You made your choice. You ignored everyone who tried to protect you. And now you expect us to pick up the pieces?” “But I’m your mother!” “That’s exactly why I’m angry!” Igor shot to his feet, his voice cracking. “I’m tired, Mum! Tired of watching you throw your life away, then running to me for help!” Mrs. Nichols shrank and started to sob. “He lied to me, son. I really loved him, trusted him…” “Trusted him so much you handed over the flat to a stranger. Brilliant, Mum, just brilliant. Did you forget Dad paid for that flat?” “I’m sorry,” the tears ran unchecked down her face. “I was blind, I know. But please… give me another chance. I’ll never—” “Adults are responsible for their choices.” Igor’s tone was quiet, drained. “You wanted independence? Well, here it is. Find somewhere to live. Get a job. Sort yourself out.” Mrs. Nichols left in tears, sobbing down the stairs. Olga spent the night beside her husband—silent, just holding his hand. Igor didn’t cry. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, sighing heavily from time to time. “Did I do the right thing?” he asked near dawn as the sky began to lighten. “Yes.” Olga stroked his cheek. “It was harsh. It hurt. But it was right.” That morning, Igor rang his mother and arranged a bedsit for her on the outskirts of town. Paid six months’ rent in advance. That was the last help he agreed to give. “From now on, Mum, you’re on your own. If you need to go to court, we’ll help with that. But you can’t live with us…” Olga listened and thought about justice. Sometimes the harshest lesson is the one that sticks. Her mother-in-law got exactly what her blindness had earned her. And though the thought was bitter, it was strangely comforting. And yet, somewhere inside, Olga knew—it wasn’t the end; somehow, things would work out. She didn’t know how. But they would…