“If I’m the villain in your mother’s story, then let her live however she pleases. I wont lift another finger for her!”
Layla had always tried to keep her composure when it came to Margaret Montgomery. Her mother-in-law visited their flat two or three times a week, and each visit felt like an ordeal. The September days grew shorter, and Laylas patience wore thinner.
Margaret adored hosting. Shed arrive with bags of groceries, take over the kitchen, and cook enough to feed an armyalways inviting neighbours, acquaintances, and sometimes complete strangers.
“Now *this* is hospitality!” Margaret would announce loudly, setting the table. “Not like some people who cant even brew a proper cuppa.”
Layla clenched her jaw and kept slicing bread. Margaret never named names, but everyone knew who she meant.
At the table, Margaret became a performer. Her eyes lit up, her voice turned theatrical, and the show began.
“My nephews wifenow *theres* a gem!” Margaret would exclaim, hands fluttering. “Sophies so crafty! You should see her embroiderylike proper art! Knits, sews, keeps their garden immaculate. Jams, preservesher homes a treasure!”
The guests would nod approvingly while Laylas cheeks burned. Her husband, James, sat beside her, glued to his phone, pretending not to hear.
“And my cousins wife, Emmaabsolute angel,” Margaret continued. “So obedient, so agreeable. Never a cross word. Her mother-in-laws treated like royalty. Always helping, always consulting her. *Thats* proper upbringing!”
One of the neighbours turned to Layla. “What about you, dear? Any talents?”
Layla opened her mouth, but Margaret cut in. “Oh, why bother asking?” Her voice dripped with mock sweetness. “Our Laylas a *modern* woman. Office job, glued to a computer. No time for homemaking. Used to having everything done for her.”
“Im a sales manager,” Layla said tightly.
“Yes, a *manager*,” Margaret nodded sagely. “And who runs the home? My poor James comes back from work and has to cook, cleanour Laylas spoiled rotten.”
Laylas jaw ached from gritting her teeth. James still hadnt looked up.
After another such dinner, as the guests left and the dishes were washed, Margaret approached with a saccharine smile.
“Layla, darling, could you pop round tomorrow? I need help at the clinicgot test results to collect. Its ever so daunting alone.”
“Of course, Margaret,” Layla said, though she had a client meeting.
“Oh, youre a love! James is ever so busy at workwouldnt want to trouble him. But you, with your *flexible hours*”
Layla bit back the retort that her hours werent flexible. Better not to start a row.
The following week, it happened again. Margaret appeared with another request.
“Layla, pet, could you fetch my prescriptions?” She handed over a list. “The doctors changed my meds, and Im hopeless with these names. Might get the wrong ones.”
“Fine,” Layla said flatly.
“And if its not too much, some groceries? Laundry detergent, flourtoo heavy for my back.”
Layla wasted half a day hunting down the meds across three pharmacies, then queued at Tesco. She returned exhausted.
“Howd it go?” James asked, eyes on the telly.
“Peachy,” she muttered.
Days later, Margaret arrived with relatives in tow. “Meet my daughter-in-law, Layla,” she said, gesturing. “And this is my sister-in-law, Diane, and her daughter, Charlotte.”
Charlotte, Laylas age, carried herself like a matron. “Heard you work in an office?” she said, scanning the flat.
“Yes. Sales.”
“How *fascinating*,” Charlotte simpered. “Im a stay-at-home mumthree little angels. The eldest plays violin. *So* gifted.”
Margaret beamed. “*Thats* a proper woman! Home, children, supporting her husband. Not gallivanting about offices.”
Laylas face burned.
Diane chimed in. “Charlottes *so* domesticcooks, sews, even keeps a vegetable patch. Her husband says its paradise at home.”
Margaret turned to Layla. “Hear that, pet? Take notes! Maybe then my James wouldnt *disappear* most evenings.”
Layla froze. Only she knew James had been staying out late. How did Margaret?
“James is often out?” Diane asked eagerly.
“He works hard,” Layla said stiffly.
“Works!” Margaret scoffed. “Any man would flee such a dull home. Empty fridge, wife always working. No wonder he seeks *comfort* elsewhere.”
Charlotte sighed. “A man needs *nurturing*. Cosy home, home-cooked meals. Mine wont even go on business tripssays nowheres better than home.”
An hour later, when theyd finally left, Layla snapped.
“Did you *hear* what your mother said?”
James shrugged. “Just womens chatter.”
“Chatter? She *humiliated* me!”
“She didnt *name* you. Just pointed out others lives.”
Layla stared. “So you agreeIm a bad wife?”
“I didnt say that. But Mums rightyou *could* focus more on home.”
“Who cooks? Cleans? The *house-elf*?”
“We take turns”
“Turns? When did *you* last cook? Microwaving pizza doesnt count!”
James winced. “No need to shout.”
“Im *done*! Done with your mothers jabs, and you just *sitting there*!”
She stormed off.
Next day, Margaret called again. “Darling, could you fetch my special cream? Only Boots in *Knightsbridge* stocks it, and the journeys *such* a hassle for me”
Layla checked the clock. A meeting in three hours.
“Margaret, maybe another day? Ive got”
“Oh, whats *so* important? A tiny delay wont hurt! My skins *agony*!”
Layla caved. Traffic trapped her. She missed the meeting, got reprimanded.
That evening, James brushed it off. “One late day wont kill you. Mum needed help.”
“And if Im *sacked*?”
“Youll find another job.”
Layla went cold.
A week later, another dinner. Another round of comparisons.
“My nephews wifewhat a blessing! They *holiday* together! She *consults* me! Like a *real* daughter!” Margaret sighed, then eyed Layla. “*Some* think marriage means ignoring in-laws. No advice, no respect.”
“Margaret,” Layla said icily, “if youve got *issues*, say them outright.”
Margaret gasped. “Issues? Im just *musing* about respect for elders!”
Later, as Layla washed dishes, Margaret sidled up.
“Tell me, dearare you *good* for anything?”
A plate slipped from Laylas grip, shattering.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing,” Margaret said airily. “Just wondering if youve *any* skills beyond typing.”
Laylas hands shook as she picked up the shards.
“If Im the villain in your mothers story, then let her live however she pleases. I wont lift another finger for her!”
Silence. Margaret blinked, stunned. James finally looked up.
“Layla, what?”
“Did you *hear* her? She just asked if Im *good for anything*!”
Margaret fluttered. “A slip of the tongue!”
“Months of *slips*!”
James groaned. “Mum didnt mean”
“Enough.” Layla grabbed her phone.
“Whore you calling?” James demanded.
“The police. To remove trespassers.”
“*Trespassers*? Im her *son*!”
“Who let her abuse me.”
Officers arrived swiftly. Margaret wailed. James spluttered.
“Its *her* flat,” the officer said, checking Laylas deed. “Youll have to leave.”
Defeated, James packed a bag.
“Layla, *think*”
“I have.” She shut the door behind them.
The next morning, she changed the locks. Brewed coffee. Watched autumn leaves dance outside. The flat was *hers* againquiet, warm, *free*.
Margaret called weeks later, whimpering about groceries.
“No,” Layla said, and hung up.
James rang, furious. “Mums in *tears*!”
“Not my problem.”
They
