The lock clicked like a gunshot. I stood frozen on the cold concrete landing, clutching my son’s bag of clothes. Behind the door, the steady murmur of the television continued. They’d simply gone back to their evening, as though they hadn’t just thrown their own daughter-in-law and grandson out into the November drizzle.
It had started with what seemed like an ordinary breakfast conversation. My husband Tom, always in a rush, was scarfing down his toast.
“Jen, you wouldn’t mind helping Mum out, would you?” he asked, avoiding my eyes. “The bathroom pipes burstflooded the flat below. Needs urgent repairs.”
“Of course,” I agreed easily. “But what kind of help? Giving her money?”
“Well…” Tom hesitated. “Not exactly. Shes asked us to stay with her while the works being done. Just a week or two. She cant manage the builders alone, and the dust, the mess… Weve just closed that big contract, got the bonus. We could use a break.”
The thought of living in my mother-in-laws spacious three-bedroom flat while we rented out our tiny one-bed to cover the mortgage didnt appeal. But I always tried to keep the peace.
“Fine,” I sighed. “But one week, Tom. I wont last longer. You know how things are between us.”
“Shes changed, Jen, I swear!” He hugged me. “Shes missed little Charlie. Keeps saying, Bring him round more. This is our chance.”
We moved in on Sunday. My mother-in-law, Margaret, greeted us with icy politeness.
“Leave your shoes at the door. Ive just cleaned. Youll be in the far bedroomless disturbance.”
The “week” stretched. The builders barely showed up, and Margaret kept me busycleaning, cooking, running errands.
“Jennifer, dont sit idle. Wipe the living room floor.”
“Jennifer, fetch me fat-free yoghurtcheck the date.”
“Jennifer, Tom says you sew? Mend this skirt.”
I bit my tongue, reminding myself it was temporary. Tom, home from work, hid with his phone or went out with mates. Every mention of leaving was met with, “Mum needs us. Be patient.”
One week became two. Then a month. Our clothes migrated from suitcases to drawers. Charlie settled into his new room. And I waited.
The breaking point came one November night. Charlie fell illhigh fever. Our medicine was back at our flat.
“Margaret, Charlies burning up. Do you have paracetamol?”
She glanced up from the telly. “Check the bathroom cabinet.”
Nothing but plasters and old bandages. I returned, fighting the anger rising in my chest.
“Theres nothing. Give me moneythe chemists still open.”
She turned, eyes sharp. “Money? Wheres yours? Youve been living off meeating my food, using my utilities. Surely you can afford medicine for your boy. Or cant you?”
“Our moneys going into rent and the mortgage,” I said tightly. “We agreedwe cover your repairs while staying here.”
“Repairs cost ten times that,” she scoffed. “Sort yourself out.”
Tom walked in. “Whats going on?”
“Your wifes begging for money,” Margaret snapped. “Too lazy to care for her own child.”
Tom looked helplessly between us. “Jen, maybe youve got something? I owe the lads…”
Something in me shattered. Without a word, I bundled Charlie in a blanket and packed our things. Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the hallway, dressed, Charlie in my arms.
“Tom, were leaving.”
“Where? At this hour? Hes sick!”
“The hospital. Then home. Our tenants left weeks ago. Ill call the landlord.”
“Our home? Mum cant manage alone!”
Margaret blocked the door. “Let her go, Tom. If shed cared properly, the boy wouldnt be ill.”
I waitedone secondfor Tom to defend us. He just hung his head.
“Fine. Well talk tomorrow.”
I turned the knob, but Margaret stopped me.
“Leave the key. Its mine.”
I handed it over. She met my eyes, cold.
“And no claims. We owe her nothing.”
The door slammed. I walked forty minutes in the rain before finding a cab. The driver, seeing Charlies feverish face, drove in silence.
Our flat was cold, dusty. But it was ours. I rubbed Charlies chest with vapour rub, brewed honey-lemon tea, rocked him to sleep. Then I sat by the window, watching the rain streak the glass.
Tom came next morning, full of excuses. “Mums difficult, you know that. The repairs cost more”
“We helped,” I cut in. “We lived as her servants, paid her bills while our home stood empty. Enough.”
“But shes alone!” he exploded. “Dads gone, Im her only son!”
“Obliged?” I stared at him. “Was she obliged to throw a sick child into the rain? To belittle me daily? No, Tom. Nobody owes anyone that.”
He left in a rage. And I knewhed always choose her.
A week later, I filed for divorce. Tom raged. Margaret called, screeching about ingratitude.
But I stood firm. Found a job. Enrolled Charlie in nursery.
Spring came. Margaret rang my doorbellfrail, aged. She stepped in, voice unsteady.
“Toms lost his job. Debts piling up. That woman left him. Jennifer… hes your husband. You must take him back.”
I almost pitied her. “Remember what you said when you shut that door?”
She looked away.
“That was different.”
“Circumstances always are.” I opened the door. “But words stay. You were right. Nobody owes anyone anything.”
She left, shoulders slumped. I watched her go, feeling nothing but a quiet sadness.
Sometimes, to start living, you must shut a door. And never look back.
