I cared for my mother-in-law, but she left the apartment to someone else

Bring me some water, Ive been calling for an hour, its like youre banging those pots just to ignore me!

The shrill, fractured voice from the back bedroom made me jump, nearly dropping the ladle. I drew in a deep breath, counting to tena habit Id picked up during the last three years of living in this purgatory. The kitchen smelled of boiled chicken and medicine, a blend that seemed to stick in the very walls and curtains. I turned off the stove, poured cooled boiled waternever cold, never hotinto a glass, and headed towards my mother-in-laws room.

Margaret Palmer was propped up on her pile of pillows, resembling some old, grumpy bird. Her sharp, watery eyes tracked my every movement. On the bedside table, amongst endless bottles of pills, crossword books, and prescription notes, I spotted a thick brown envelope I didnt recognise.

Here you are, Mrs Palmer, drink up, I handed over the glass, keeping my voice steady, avoiding irritation. Sorry, I didnt hearyou know the extractor fan was on. The chicken soups ready, Ill mash up your veggies as the doctor said.

She took a few tiny sips, grimacing as if Id handed her vinegar, and pushed the glass away.

Always an excuse, she grumbled, wiping her mouth with the sheet. The extractor fan, the hoover, the phone. Leave me here to die of thirst, do you?

Please dont say that. Im always nearby, I replied, letting her words slide off me. As I straightened up the blankets, my eyes lingered again on the odd envelope, a corner of official paper peeking out.

Whats that, new medicine from the doctor? I nodded at the bedside table. Let me take a look, maybe Ill need to pop out for something.

Margarets hand shot out, snatching the envelope with surprising speed for someone who was complaining half an hour ago about not being able to lift a spoon.

Dont touch it! she snapped. Its none of your business. My papers.

I blinked, confused. Usually she insisted I handle all her medical notes, bills and pension letters. Secretive behaviour was something new.

I was only asking… I began, but then the front door slammed, heavy footsteps echoed in the hall.

Michaels home! her face transformed instantly, the sour expression melting into a sugary smile. Son, come help me, save me from this prison guard!

My husband Michael entered, looking exhausted. His jacket was creased, tie crookedhe spent most nights at the office, avoiding the sickroom atmosphere and never-ending complaints at home.

Hello, Mum. Hey Sarah, he muttered, pecking his mothers cheek, barely glancing my way. Whats happened now? What prison guard? Sarah takes care of you like a child.

She does, Margaret pursed her lips. She waits for me to vacate the space, I see it in her cold, empty eyes. No love, just duty.

A lump rose in my throat. Three years ago when Margaret had her stroke, the question was either a carer or residential home. We couldnt afford a decent carer, and Michael had vetoed the home outrightwhat would people say, sending your own mother away. So Id quit my beloved library job, moved her from her flat into ours, and we decided to let her flat to cover the medical bills.

Ill go set the table, I whispered, leaving the room.

At dinner, Michael poked at his cottage pie.

Is it nice? I asked hopefully.

Its fine, he barely looked away from his phone. Listen, Mum asked if youd have Pauline over. She says she misses her.

Pauline was Margarets niece, daughter of her late sister. Loud, overdone makeup, utterly useless around the house. She turned up once every six months, brought a cheap cake Margaret couldnt even eat because of the sugar, sat by the bedside gossiping about her failed marriages, then left behind her perfume and dirty dishes.

Why? I asked. Margarets blood pressure is up, Paulines too much for her, always excites her.

Mum wants it. Says shes got some business. Let her come tomorrow, just put up with it for an hour.

The next day, Pauline appeared precisely at noon. She breezed in, shoes still on, leaving marks on the carpet, and chirped:

Sarah, darling! Youve put on weight, havent you? That dressing gown does nothing for you. Wheres Aunt Margaret? Ive brought treats!

She brandished a bag of marshmallow sweetsexactly what Margaret couldn’t have.

I just pointed to the bedroom door. Pauline disappeared inside, and the hushed chattering, mingled with Margarets emotional sniffles, began at once. I escaped to the kitchen to sort the lentils, worrying about that mysterious envelope.

After an hour, Pauline emerged beaming, the envelope stuffed carelessly into her massive handbag.

Well, thats me off! Business calls, you know! Aunt Margarets nodded off, best let her sleep. Youre doing well with the cleaning, but honestly, those curtains need changing, so outdated.

She left as quickly as shed arrived.

Later that evening, as I wrestled with fresh sheetsMargaret was a heavy woman and hardly helpfulI ventured to ask:

Mrs Palmer, what papers did you give Pauline? Need any copies? Or a trip to the Council?

Margaret squinted slyly. I saw a hint of gleeful triumph in her gaze.

That, Sarah, is my thanks. Paulines the only one who loves me without any thought for the flat or inheritance. She loves me for me. Bloods thicker than water.

A cold chill ran through me.

What do you mean, the flat? Its being let, paying for your medicine. We agreed one day it would go to the grandchildren, Michael and my kids, after…

Margaret cackled, her laugh dry and hacking.

Agreed, did you? Counting chickens before they hatch! I decided differently. The solicitor came today while you were out shopping. I made a deed of gift. For Pauline. Its hers now.

I froze, bedsheet in hand. The world tilted.

What… a deed of gift? I whispered. Pauline? The very Pauline who never brought you water or knows your medication routine?

But she never throws it in my face! Margaret screamed. You go around like youre doing me a favour! Waiting for me to die to snatch the flat! Well, tough luck! Pauline owns it now. Official. Section 572 of the Civil Code, dearie. Deed of gift. No going back.

I sank onto the chair. My legs were jelly. Three years. Three years of injections, nappies, cleaning, sleepless nights. Gave up my career. All for what? To be called a calculating outsider?

Does Michael know? I managed.

Hell find out when it matters. My propertyIll give it to whoever I please. Now go reheat the soup, Im hungry. And fix my nappy, its uncomfortable.

I got up. My ears were ringing. I silently went to the hallway, grabbed my coat and bag, and left. I couldnt stay in that flat. I needed air.

I wandered the streets for two hours, finally frozen through. One thought spun round and roundbetrayal. Not just by Margaret; Id never expected love from her. Betrayal by Michael. The solicitor couldnt have turned up alone; someone had to open the door and supply documents.

When I returned, Michael was home, eating soup from the saucepan.

Where have you been? he complained. Mums screaming, nappys wet, and youre missing. Am I supposed to wipe her backside? Im a bloke, it makes me sick!

I looked at himfor the first time in twenty years, I saw him clearly. Not a beloved husband, not a partner, but a selfish, childish man who sought only convenience.

Michael, I said softly. Your mothers gifted the flat to Pauline. Deed of gift. Did you know?

Michael choked, almost red in the face.

What gift? Are you out of your mind?

No, Im not. She told me herself. Pauline took the papers today. The solicitor turned up while I was out. Who opened the door? You have a spare set of keys, could you have come at lunchtime?

Michael glanced away. He shredded bread onto the table, his shoulder twitching.

Well I made a quick visit. Mum asked, said she needed her pension paperwork changed or something. I let the guy in, seemed decent. I didnt pay much attention, Sarah! I had work!

You didnt pay attention? My voice wobbled. Your mother has disinherited our children, gave the flat to someone else, and you didnt pay attention? Wholl pay for her medicine now? Pauline will sell the flat, the rent money will dry up. Where will you find the money, Michael? Your salary? Or am I supposed to start working again to support a woman who spat in my face?

Dont start a scene! Michael slammed his fist on the table. Mums ill, her mind must be muddled! Well challenge it, say shes not competent!

Not competent? I let out a bitter laugh. You always claimed she was sharp when she praised you. The solicitors not stupid; he wouldve needed proof she was fit. Pauline planned it all.

A voice hollered from the bedroom:

Is anyone alive out there? Im soaked! Sarah! Wash me!

Michael grimaced.

Sarah, cant you go? Well sort it all later. She cant lie in filth.

And something snapped in me. The last thin thread of patience, duty, sacrifice. I looked at my rough, red hands, worn from washing and scrubbing. Remembered the last time Id been to a salon. The holidays Id dreamed of, abandoned because, where would we put Mum?

No, I said.

What do you mean, No? Michael didnt understand.

I wont go. Im finished washing her, making soups, enduring the insults. Shes got her flat owner nowPauline. Under the Civil Code, she took the asset; let her take the liability. Call Pauline. She can come and wash.

Are you mad? Michael jumped up. Pauline wont even answer the phone at this hour! She doesnt know how! Sarah, she’s my mum!

Exactly. Your mother. Not mine. And shes given the flat to her niece. Im the outsider. Prison guard, she called me.

I turned and walked into our bedroomnot to Margaret, but to Michaels and mine. I pulled out a suitcase.

What are you doing? Michael stood in the doorway, pale and shaken.

Im leaving. I’m going to stay with my own mum. Small flat, but at least the air’s clean.

Sarah, stop it! She was rash, made a mistake! Well fix this! Dont leave us! How will I manage alone? I work!

Hire a carer. Oh wait, no money the flats gone. You can do her care after work, at night, weekends. Welcome to my world, Michael.

I threw clothes into the suitcase: jumpers, underwear, books. Tears streamed down my face, but it didnt matterI just wanted out.

Sarah, I wont let you go! He tried grabbing my arm. Youre my wife! You have to stick through good and bad!

I did the bad, Michael. Three years worth. Havent seen much good. And by the way, I zipped the suitcase and straightened up, Im filing for divorce.

Over the flat?! Youre so greedy!

Not over the flat, you idiot! I yelled back. Because you let me become a slave! Because you opened the door to the solicitor and betrayed me! Because youre worrying now about wholl change the nappy, not apologising!

I rolled the suitcase into the hallway. Margarets voice had changed to howling:

Michael! Shes left me! She wants to kill me! Give me a drink!

Michael ran between me and his mothers door.

Sarah, please just stay tonight!

Ill leave my keys on the table, I said coldly. Goodbye.

I walked out, called the lift. In the mirrored walls, I pressed my forehead on the cold glass and sobbedbut this was pure relief.

The first week at Mums was a blur. I slept twelve hours at a time, ate, wandered the park. I changed my phone number, only giving it to close family. Even so, updates found me.

Through a mutual friend I heard Michael tried ringing Pauline. She ignored him, then said, A gifts a giftno care obligations in the deed. She said she was planning to sell the flat for her business, and gave notice to remove the tenants within two months. The most telling was her advice that Margaret should probably go to a care home if the son couldnt manage.

Michael took unpaid leave. Then sick days. Then called our son and daughter, both at university in other cities. Tried the guilt angle to get them to help with their grandmother. The kids phoned me.

Mum, Dads calling you a traitor, said our son Thomas. But we know what you did. Were not coming home. Exam season. Besides… Grandma chose Pauline.

I was proud. They understood perfectly.

A month passed. I got my library job back. The pays not great, but the peace and scent of books heal the soul better than Prozac. I filed for divorce. Michael never showed at hearings.

One evening, after work, Michael was waiting outside my mums flat. He looked ten years olderunshaven, filthy shirt, and a pungent mix of stale beer and old age I knew too well.

Sarah… he stepped forward. Help me. I cant cope. She shouts day and night. Pauline had already sold the flatto dodgy estate agents, dirt cheap, quick sale. The rents gone. No cash for a carer. I lost my job, they let me go…

I looked at him, felt nothing but disgust.

And what does that have to do with me, Michael?

You know how to do it You know her ways. Please, come back. Ill forgive everything. Well sell mothers old flat, move somewhere smaller, get help.

Youll forgive everything? I repeated. Isnt that backwards? I should be forgiving. But I wont.

Sarah, she cries. Remembers you. Says you made the best porridge.

She shouldve remembered sooner. When the solicitor was invited in.

But Pauline tricked us! Shes a scammer!

Pauline did what she was allowed. Margaret wanted to buy love with a few square feet. The deals done. No claims accepted.

Youve become cruel, Michael whispered.

Ive become free, I corrected him. Go home, Michael. Dont come here again. Weve got court next week. I hope its quick.

I stepped round him and opened the main door.

Sarah! he called after me. What if I put her in a state old peoples home? Theres a waiting list, so much paperworkI dont know how! Help me with it!

I paused. Turned.

Try Google, Michael. You were a manager, werent you? Sort it out. My shift is finished.

I closed the door.

Upstairs, I watched from the window. Michael was still outside, small and pitiful under the weight of responsibility hed always dumped on others. I pulled the curtains.

Tea was whistling on the stove. Mum was baking cabbage pies.

Who was that, darling? she asked.

Wrong address, Mum. Just the wrong address.

I sat at the table, took a steaming pie and bit in. Deliciousfor the first time in three years the food had taste. Life carried on, and now it belonged to me alone. Margaret Palmer got just what she deserveda greedy niece with her money and a son forced finally to grow up, even at fifty. Justice is a dish best served cold, but it still fills you up.

If you enjoy these stories, do subscribe, hit like, and share your thoughts in the comments!