We dont owe her a thing, hissed my mother-in-law before slamming the door in my face.
The click of the lock echoed like a gunshot. I stood frozen on the cold concrete landing, gripping my sons duffel bag. Behind the door, the steady hum of the telly carried on as if nothing had happened. As if they hadnt just thrown their own daughter-in-law and grandson out into the damp November night.
It had all started with what seemed like an ordinary breakfast chat. My husband, Oliver, was scarfing down toast as he rushed for work.
Lily, you wouldnt mind helping Mum out, would you? he asked, avoiding my gaze. The bathrooms a disasterburst pipe, downstairs neighbours flooded. Needs urgent work.
Course well help, I said easily. But what do you mean, help? Are we giving her money?
Well Oliver hesitated. Not exactly. Shes asked if we could stay with her while the repairs happen. Just a week or two. She cant manage the builders alone, and the dust, the mess Plus, weve just wrapped up that big projectgot the bonus. Could be a little break.
Living in my mother-in-laws spacious three-bed while we rented out our own tiny flat to cover the mortgage did *not* sound like a break. But Id always tried to keep the peace.
Fine, I sighed. One week, Oliver. Tops. You know how things are between me and your mum.
Shes changed, Lil, honest! He hugged me. Misses her grandson. Always saying, Bring Alfie round more. Heres our chance.
We moved in on Sunday. Margaret greeted us with frosty politeness.
Shoes off in the hallIve just mopped. Youre in the far bedroom. Less disruption.
Within minutes, it was clear a week was optimistic. The repairs crawled along, builders showed up twice if we were lucky, and most days, Margaret demanded my presencewhether for company or to assist with cooking and cleaning.
Lily, dont just sit therehoover the lounge.
Lily, pop to Sainsburys. I need fat-free yoghurt, check the expiry.
Lily, Oliver mentioned youre handy with a needle? Hem my skirt.
I bit my tongue, reminding myself it was temporary. Oliver, meanwhile, hid in our room or vanished to the pub with the lads after work. Any talk of going home was met with, Mums struggling. Tough it out.
One week became a month. Then another. Our suitcases emptied into drawers. Alfie adjusted. And I waited for it to end.
The breaking point came on a grim November evening. Alfie spiked a feverscorching to the touch. Our medicine box was back at the flat, so I knocked on Margarets door.
Hes burning up. Do you have Calpol or Nurofen?
She didnt glance from the telly. Check the bathroom cabinet. Take whatevers there.
The cabinet held only plasters and ancient TCP. Returning, I forced calm into my voice.
Nothing. Can I borrow £10? The chemists open till midnight.
She turned then, her gaze heavy.
*Borrow*? Youre living here, eating my food, running up bills. Cant you cover your own childs medicine? Or is money tight?
Our moneys going on the mortgage and *your* repairs, I snapped. That *was* the deal.
Deal? She scoffed. That barely scratches it. Sort yourself out.
Oliver walked in, pausing at the raised voices.
Whats going on?
Your wifes begging for cash, Margaret said. Kids ill. Probably her faultsat around all day.
Oliver looked between us, helpless.
Lil, maybe youve got spare change? Im skint after the pub last week
Something in me shattered. I turned, bundled Alfie in blankets, and packed in silence. Fifteen minutes later, I stepped into the hall, coat on, Alfie in my arms.
Were leaving.
Oliver paled. Its pitch out! Hes sick!
To A&E. Then *home*. Our tenants lease ended weeks agoIll ring the agent.
*Home*? Mum needs us! The repairs
Margaret cut in, blocking the doorway. Let her go if shes so keen. Shouldve treated the boy sooner.
I stared at Oliver, waiting. He dropped his gaze.
Fine. Talk tomorrow.
I reached for the door, but Margaret stopped me.
Leave the keys. Theyre mine.
I handed them over. She met my eyes, cool as ever.
And no tantrums. We dont owe her a thing.
The door slammed. I stumbled downstairs, clutching feverish Alfie, and slumped on a bench. Fumbling for my phone, I searched for a taxi. Before I could dial, Oliver appeared, thrusting £20 at me.
For the cab. Well talk tomorrow.
I left the cash on the bench and walked. Forty minutes later, a kind cabbie drove us, no questions asked.
Our flat was dusty and cold. But it was *ours*. I rubbed Vicks on Alfies chest, brewed honey-lemon tea, and tucked him in. Then I sat by the window, watching the dark streets, too numb to sleep.
Oliver came the next morning, defensive.
Mums just Mum. She didnt mean it. The repairs cost more than we
We *helped*, I said. A month of free labour, paying her bills while our place sat empty. Enough.
Shes *alone*! he exploded. Dads gone, Im her only son! We *owe* her!
Owe her? I stared. For kicking out her sick grandson? For belittling me daily? No, Oliver. Nobody *owes* anyone that.
He left, slamming the door. And I knewhed always choose her. Always excuse her.
A week later, I filed for divorce. Oliver ragedI was breaking the family, ungrateful, exactly what Mum warned. She called, screeching about coming to my senses.
But I held firm. Found a job near home, enrolled Alfie in nursery. Life inched forward. Nights when he asked about Daddy stung, but Id done the right thing.
Then, one spring morning, the doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, aged and frail, her usual steel gone.
May I come in?
I let her pass. She sank onto a chair.
Olivers in trouble, she muttered. Laid off. Debts piling up. That girl he took up with left him when the money dried up.
I waited.
Lily, hes still your husband. You *owe* it to him. Let him stay awhileget back on his feet. Hes Alfies father.
I studied her, anger long faded. Just sadness remained.
Remember that night you shut the door on me? I said softly. What did you tell me?
She looked away.
That was different.
Circumstances change. I folded my arms. But words stick. You were right. Nobody owes anyone anything.
She stood, shoulders slumped, and left without another word.
From the window, I watched her shuffle down the street. And pitied her. Pity for Oliver, for all of us. But Id made my choice. Sometimes, to start living, you must shut a door. And not look back.
—
Oliver did call, eventually. Voice rough with regret. We met in a caféhim greying, me guarded. He apologised, not for blame, but for blindness.
Alfie saw him on weekends, cautious at first, then laughing in parks, zoos, ice-cream shops. Oliver proved himselfnot with grand gestures, but with steady presence.
One evening, after months of stilted dinners and homework help, Alfie asked, Is Daddy coming home?
Oliver looked at me. I exhaled.
Lets try.
He moved back slowlyfirst the sofa, then shared meals, then tentative trust.
Margarets heart attack forced reckoning. We nursed her in turns. One day, spoon-feeding soup, she muttered, I was wrong about you.
She softened, baking with Alfie, even tearing up once over tea.
I envied you, she confessed. You fought. I just did what was *expected*.
Now, our lives are quieter. Oliver works hard. Alfie thrives. And Margaret? She visits, brings biscuits, calls me Lily love sometimes.
I found the £20 from that awful night months latercreased in an old coat. Oliver grimaced.
My lowest moment.
I tucked it into his palm.
Kept it to remind mefor
