Laras mother-in-law thought that after the divorce, shed keep freeloading off her out of sheer guilt. Little did she know, Lara had other plans.
Lara stared at the elderly woman standing on her doorstep, suitcase in hand, looking for all the world like shed just popped round for tea. Margaret Wilkinsher ex-mother-in-lawwore an expression of wounded entitlement, as if Lara owed her a place to stay.
“Lara, darling,” Margaret began in that syrupy tone she reserved for manipulation, “Ive nowhere else to go. Richards moved that whats-her-name Olivia in with him. And I wouldnt dream of intruding on their little love nest, you understand? Theyre building something special, and whats a woman my age to do? Youll let me stay, wont you? Just for a bit?”
Lara wordlessly stepped aside. What could she say? Toss a sixty-year-old woman out onto the pavement? Sure, the divorce had been messy. Yes, Richard had turned out to be *that* kind of manthe sort who, after twelve years of marriage, suddenly “found himself” in the arms of a twenty-five-year-old colleague. But since when was that *her* problem?
“Margaret,” Lara said softly, closing the door, “I dont understand. You have your own flat. Why do you need to stay here?”
“Oh, Lara dear,” Margaret sighed, sinking onto the sofa and untying her sensible shoes, “you know how tiny my place is. Claustrophobic, really. But hereso much space! So much air! Richard mentioned youre rattling around in this two-bedroom all alone. Whats the harm in letting an old woman bunk down for a while?”
Lara clenched her fists. *Of course* Richard had said that. How convenientnew girlfriend gets his flat, and Mum gets dumped on the ex-wife. Never mind how Lara felt about it.
“Its only temporary,” Margaret repeated, already shrugging off her coat. “Just until I sort something out.”
The first week, Lara tried to be understanding. She made breakfast for two, ran errands for “urgent” heartburn tablets Margaret *simply couldnt do without*, and quietly tidied up after her. Margaret wasnt the tidiest houseguestdirty dishes piled in the sink, knitting yarn strewn across the sofa, and the telly blasting *EastEnders* at full volume well past midnight.
“Lara, sweetheart,” Margaret chirped one morning, “my pensions barely enough to cover *existence*. Could you spare a few quid for groceries? And those new heart supplements the doctor recommended? Im absolutely skint.”
Lara silently handed over fifty pounds. Then another thirty for the “miracle” heart pills. Then twenty more for “a little treat with my tea.”
“Margaret,” Lara ventured cautiously a month in, when her wallet had grown suspiciously light, “maybe we should live within our means? Im not exactly rolling in it either.”
Margarets head snapped up, eyes flashing with the fury of a woman whod just been told *no* for the first time in decades.
“Excuse me?” Her voice climbed an octave. “*Live within our means?* How *dare* you! I welcomed you into this family like a daughter! Twelve years I treated you as my own! And now youre begrudging me pennies?”
“Im not begrudging”
“What do *you* know about sacrifice, you childless little” Margarets arms flailed dramatically. “I raised Richard alone after his father left! Worked three jobs! And now you grudge me heart pills? Ill tell the *whole neighbourhood* what youre really like! Ungrateful wretch!”
Lara endured the tantrum in silence. And the next one. And the one after that, sparked by “inedible” spaghetti bolognese. Margaret was a virtuoso of melodramahours of shouting, door-slamming, and strategically timed chest-clutching for the neighbours benefit.
After yet another performance, Lara called Richard.
“Rick, come get your mother. *Please*.”
“Lara, dont be like that. Im building a life here. Mums still upset about the divorce. Youve got all that spacewhats the big deal?”
“The big deal is *my* money, *my* sanity, and *my* peace.”
“Dont be dramatic. Shes elderly. Needs support. If you can help, *help*.”
The line went dead. Hed hung up.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Lara realised shed had enough. Margaret acted like *she* owned the flatthrowing fits over trifles, demanding cash, and never once questioning her divine right to do so.
*”She thought Id keep funding her out of guilt,”* Lara mused, gazing at the dreary February sky outside. *”But she had no idea what I was planning.”*
The next morning, while Margaret was off at the GPs (conveniently timed for maximum sympathy), Lara called a locksmith. New locks were fitted within the hour.
That evening, Margaret returned from her daily mooch around Waitrose, ready to critique dinner. But her key didnt turn.
“Lara! Open this door!” She hammered on the wood. “What sort of joke is this?”
Lara stepped onto the landing, arms crossed. “No joke, Margaret. Pack your thingsIve called you a taxi.”
“*What?* Have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to go?”
“Home. To your son. Where you belong.”
“But I *cant*! Olivias there! Its *awkward*!”
“Was it awkward for *me*?” Lara asked coolly, watching Margarets face shift from outrage to theatrical devastation.
“How *dare* you!” Margaret screeched. “Im an old woman! My hearts *fragile*! You cant do this!”
“I can. Its *my* flat.”
“Ill tell the neighbours! Ill”
“Tell them. I dont care anymore.”
Packing took minutesMargaret hadnt brought much. In the taxi, she was uncharacteristically silent, save for the occasional gasp and clutch at her chest.
Outside Richards building, Lara hauled the suitcase out. Upstairs, a bewildered Richard answered the door in joggers.
“Lara? Mum? Whats going on?”
“Whats going on,” Lara said, shoving the suitcase inside, “is that your mother no longer lives with me.”
Olivia appeareda pretty blonde in a dressing gown. Her face fell at the sight of Margaret.
“But she *cant* stay here!” Richard protested. “Weve got were”
“Building a life,” Lara finished. “Lovely. Build it. Without me.”
“Lara, you dont understand,” Richard said, in that infuriating *talking-to-a-child* tone. “Mum needs help. Shes elderly. *Frail*. Her pensions peanuts.”
“She has a son. *He* can help.”
“But Ive got a new family now!”
“And Ive got a new life. One that doesnt include your problems.”
Margaret, whod been quietly fuming, erupted:
“Richard! Do you *see* how shes treating me? Throwing me out like *rubbish*! Heartless! I *loved* her like a daughter!”
“Mum, come on,” Richard mumbled, panic rising.
“If you want to abandon your mother,” Lara said, turning to leave, “thats your conscience. But not a single one of you will ever set foot in my flat again.”
“Lara, *wait*!” Richard called after her.
But she was already down the stairs, deaf to Margarets operatic wails and Richards spluttering.
Back home, Lara fired up her laptop and booked a holidaytwo weeks in Spain, all-inclusive. The money shed saved for new furniture? Well, sanity was worth more.
That evening, Richard called.
“Lara, how could you be so *cruel*? Mums devastated.”
“Let her be devastated *in your flat*.”
“But Olivia and I are just starting out! *Understand*?”
“I understand its *your* problem now.”
“Lara, *please*. Well figure something out, but not yet. Give us time.”
“Youve had time. A whole *month* of me bankrolling your mother. Times up.”
She hung up and switched off her phone.
For three days, it buzzed with callsRichard, Margaret, even unknown numbers (probably Margarets cronies). Lara ignored them all.
By Friday, the gossip had reached her neighbour, Mrs. Henderson.
“Lara, love, is it true youve kicked Margaret out?”
“True.”
“Oh, but shes *elderly*.”
“Not so elderly she can
