Margaret stared at the elderly woman with a suitcase standing on her doorstep and nearly dropped her tea. Veronica Wilkins, her ex-mother-in-law, had the audacity to look as if shed just popped round for a spot of afternoon gossip.
“Darling Maggie,” Veronica cooed, already stepping inside without invitation, “Ive nowhere else to go. Simons moved thatwhats-her-nameEmily into his flat. And I wont be a bother to young love, will I? Theyre building their future, and whats an old woman to do? Youll let me stay, wont you? Just for a little while?”
Margaret wordlessly stepped aside. What could she say? Toss a sixty-year-old onto the pavement? Yes, the divorce had been messy. Yes, Simon had turned out to be the sort of man 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?
“Veronica,” Margaret said carefully, shutting the door, “you have your own flat. Why must you stay here?”
“Oh, pet,” Veronica sighed, already making herself at home on the sofa and kicking off her sensible shoes, “you know how poky my place is. Hardly room to breathe! And here? Spacious, airy! Simon mentioned your two-bedders just sitting empty. Surely you can spare a corner for your dear old mother-in-law?”
Margaret clenched her fists. Of *course* Simon had said that. How convenientnew girlfriend installed in his flat, and his mother palmed off onto his ex-wife. Never mind how Margaret felt about it.
“Its only temporary,” Veronica repeated, already unbuttoning her coat. “Just until I sort myself out.”
For the first week, Margaret played the martyr. She cooked breakfast for two, bought the “urgent” heart pills Veronica suddenly needed, and quietly cleaned up after her. Veronica wasnt the tidiest houseguestdirty dishes piled in the sink, jumpers strewn about, telly blaring soap operas till midnight.
“Maggie, love,” Veronica chirped one morning, “my pensions barely enough for beans. Could you spare a bit for groceries? And my blood pressure tabletsIm skint!”
Margaret silently handed over fifty quid. Then thirty more for “new vitamins.” Then twenty for “a little treat with tea.”
“Veronica,” Margaret ventured after a month, eyeing her dwindling bank balance, “perhaps we should live within our means? Im not made of money either.”
Veronicas head snapped up, eyes flashing with the familiar spark of impending drama.
“Excuse me?” Her voice climbed an octave. “Live within my *means*? How *dare* you! I welcomed you into this family! Twelve years, I treated you like a daughter! And now you begrudge me a few pennies for my health?”
“Im not begrudging”
“What do *you* know about struggle, childless as you are!” Veronica shrieked, arms flailing. “I raised Simon alone after his father left! Worked three jobs! And now you wont spare a tenner for my heart pills? Ill tell the whole street what you really areungrateful!”
Margaret endured the tantrum in silence. And the next one. And the one after that, sparked by “unsuitable” fish fingers for dinner. Veronica was a virtuoso of melodramahours of shouting, neighbours eavesdropping, accusations of every sin under the sun.
After the latest performance, Margaret rang Simon.
“Take your mother back. Now.”
“Come off it, Mags. Im building a new life. Mums still upset about the divorce, and youve got all that space”
“Its costing me money, sanity, and peace.”
“Dont be dramatic. Shes elderly. Needs support. If you can help, why wouldnt you?”
*Click.* Hed hung up.
Sitting at the kitchen table, Margaret realised shed had enough. Veronica acted like she owned the place, demanded cash like it was her due, and never once questioned her right to do so.
*”She thought Id keep funding her out of guilt,”* Margaret mused, watching rain patter against the window. *”But shes in for a surprise.”*
Next morning, while Veronica was at the GPs, Margaret called a locksmith. New bolts fitted in an hour.
That evening, Veronica returned from her daily mooch around Tescoonly to find her key useless.
“Maggie! Open this door!” She banged on the wood. “Whats this nonsense?”
Margaret stepped onto the landing, calm as you please.
“No nonsense, Veronica. Your taxis here.”
“*What?* Have you lost your mind? Where am I supposed to go?”
“Home. To your son. Where you belong.”
“I *cant*! Emilys there! Its *awkward*!”
“And was it awkward for *me*?” Margaret asked, watching Veronicas face twist from shock to fury.
“How *dare* you!” Veronica screeched. “Im an old woman! My hearts frail! You cant do this!”
“I can. Its *my* flat.”
“Ill tell the neighbours! Everyone will know what you are!”
“Tell them. I dont care anymore.”
Packing took minutesVeronica travelled light. The taxi ride was silent but for theatrical gasps and clutched chests.
At Simons building, Margaret hauled the suitcase inside. Up to the third floor. The door swung open to reveal a baffled Simon in joggers.
“Mags? Mum? Whats all this?”
“Im returning your mother,” Margaret said, shoving the suitcase inside. “She no longer lives with me.”
Emily appeareda pretty blonde in a dressing gown. Her face fell at the sight of her mother-in-law.
“Mum cant stay *here*!” Simon protested. “Weve only just”
“started your new life,” Margaret finished. “Lovely. Enjoy it. Without me.”
“Maggie, you dont understand,” Simon said in that infuriating *explaining-to-a-toddler* tone. “Mum needs care. Shes poorly. Her pensions peanuts.”
“She has a son. *You* care for her.”
“But Ive a new family now!”
“And Ive a new life. One without your problems.”
Veronica, silent till now, erupted.
“Simon! See how she treats me? Throws out a frail old woman! Heartless! I loved her like my own!”
“Mum, dont” Simon stammered, panic setting in.
“Evict your mother if you like,” Margaret said, turning to leave. “But none of you set foot in my flat again. I wont answer the door.”
“Maggie, wait!” Simon called after her.
But she was already downstairs, deaf to Veronicas wails and Simons sputtering.
Home again, Margaret fired up her laptop. The money shed saved for a new sofa? Perfect for a two-week all-inclusive in Spain. Exactly what she needed after a month of Veronica.
That evening, Simon rang.
“How could you be so cruel? Mums in tears!”
“Let her cry in *your* flat.”
“But Em and I are just starting out! You get that, right?”
“I do. I also get that its *your* problem.”
“Be reasonable! Well sort somethingjust not yet.”
“You had a monthwhile I funded your mum. Times up.”
She hung up and switched off her phone.
Three days of relentless calls followed. Simon. Veronica. Even unknown numbersVeronicas cronies, no doubt. Margaret ignored them all.
Thursday morning, sipping coffee by the window, she revelled in the silence. No demands. No drama. Just peace.
The doorbell ruined it. Emily stood there, red-eyed.
“Can we talk?”
“About?”
“Veronica. I know youve fallen out, but”
“We didnt fall out. I set boundaries.”
“Shes… difficult,” Emily whispered. “Blames me for the divorce. Screams daily. Simon hides at work, leaving me with her. She says awful things.”
Margaret almost smiled. A month ago, shed have pitied Emily. Now?
“Your family. Your problem.”
“Maybe we could… take turns?”
“No.”
“She cant live on the *street*!”
“She has a flat. And a son. Sort it yourselves.”
Emily lingered, hoping for more. Margaret said nothing.
“I thought youd understand,” Emily murmured, turning away.
“I do. I understand everyone must solve their own mess.”
By Friday, the neighbourhood buzzed. Mrs. Henderson from number twelve cornered her at the postboxes.
“Margaret, loveis it true you kicked poor Veronica out?”
“True.”
“Oh, but… shes elderly!”
“Not too elderly to scream for hours or demand money.”
