Margaret, my motherinlaw, has just thrown my passport in the wash together with my jeans.
Margaret, I asked you not to touch my things! I shout, standing in the doorway of the bathroom, a pink sweater clutched in my hands. Thats wool! You cant wash it in hot water!
Margaret, a plump woman of about sixtyfive, turns away from the hob where meatloaf sizzles.
What are you shouting about? I was trying to help. I saw dirty laundry and washed it.
But I didnt ask! I have my own system, I know when and what to wash!
My system? Margaret huffs. You leave dirty clothes for three days and hide behind my system. When I was your age I kept the house spotless.
I squeeze the sweater tighter. Just a month ago my husband Andrew and I were living calmly in our twobedroom flat. Then Margaret broke her leg, and Andrew insisted she move in while she recovered.
Theres no time for me to wash every day! My voice cracks. I work from nine to seven, then I cook and clean!
What about me? Im helping, Margaret says, flipping the meatloaf. Im making lunch, Im washing the floor.
I didnt ask for help!
Andrew! Margaret yells toward the bedroom. Do you hear how your wife talks to me?
Andrew steps out in his boxer shorts and a Tshirt, looking exhausted.
Whats happened? he asks.
My motherinlaw washes my stuff without asking, I say, holding out the sweater. Look, its ruined! The wool shrank!
Andrew glances at the sweater, then at Margaret, then at me.
Is that so? She was just trying to help.
I never asked for help!
Calm down, Nat. Its just a wash. Youll buy a new one.
How am I supposed to pay? It cost five hundred pounds!
Margaret throws up her hands. Five hundred for a piece of cloth! Such waste! Then she complains theres no money!
I stomp away to the bedroom, slam the door, collapse onto the bed and press my face into the pillow. Tears sting, but I hold them back.
It isnt the first row over the past three weeks that Margaret has lived with us. Every day brings a new irritation. She rearranges kitchen cupboards, making it impossible for me to find anything. She cooks enough food to feed a small army, then gets upset when there are leftovers. She turns the TV up to full blast at six in the morning.
I work as an accountant for a construction firm. My schedule is tight, the reports endless. I come home exhausted and immediately face Margarets complaints. Andrew always sides with his mother, saying we must be patient, that shes ill and will soon leave.
But her recovery is slow, and Margaret lingers, saying shes afraid to be alone and might fall again.
The next morning I oversleep. The alarm never rang because Ive been replaying yesterdays argument in my head all night. I bolt upright, look at the clockhalf past eight.
Blimey! I exclaim and dash to the bathroom. Margaret is already loading the washing machine.
Good morning, she says dryly.
Morning, I mutter, grabbing my toothbrush.
I dress in five minutes, grab my bag and rush out the door, but Margaret calls after me.
Nat, wait!
What? Im late!
Where did you leave the blue jeans yesterday?
On the chair in the bedroom, why?
I washed them. They were dirty.
And? I snap, shifting from foot to foot.
Nothing. Just thought you should know.
I wave and sprint out. On the bus to work I pat my pockets, remembering there was a handkerchief or maybe a coin inside.
At the office the day is a frenzy. Were finalising the quarterly report; the director wants everything ready by lunch. Im buried in figures when my colleague Sophie brings me a coffee.
You look pale. Your motherinlaw again? she asks.
Again, I sigh. I dont know how to live with her. Its a new drama every day.
Tell Andrew to have a word with her.
I already have. He always takes her side.
Sophie shakes her head. Mums are sacred, wives are supposed to endure.
At lunch I sit in the canteen, spooning soup halfheartedly. My phone buzzesa message from Andrew.
Moms doctor wants her to come in on Wednesday. Can you drive her?
My stomach drops. I have a supplier meeting that day, but refusing will spark another argument. I type a quick reply.
I get home at eight. Margaret is in the kitchen, sipping tea with a biscuit.
Dinner soon? I made a stew.
Thanks, later, I say, heading to the bedroom to change.
The jeans are still on the radiator, still damp. I pat the pocketsempty. At least she didnt wash my change.
Then I remember my passport. Yesterday I went to the bank and slipped it into the back pocket of those jeans.
My heart sinks. I race to the washing machine, fling the door opennothing. I look around the dryer, the towels, the sheets, but the passport is gone.
Margaret! I shout, storming into the kitchen.
She flinches.
What are you shouting about?
My passport! It was in the jeans! Where is it?
What passport?
My own! I left it in the pocket!
You never told me! How was I supposed to know?
You should have checked the pockets before washing!
I did! There were only some wet papers, which I threw away!
I rush to the bin, tip it out onto the floor. Among the soggy receipts I spot a damp stack of blue pages. Its the passport, halfdisintegrated.
I lift it with trembling hands; the ink runs, the photo is a grey smear.
This was my passport, Margaret whispers, looking over my shoulder.
It was, I say, feeling a boil inside. Now its rubbish.
It wasnt on purpose. Its your fault for putting it there.
My fault?! You wash other peoples clothes without asking, you dont check the pockets, and Im to blame?
Dont yell at me! Im old, I cant be nervous!
And I cant! Now I have no passport!
Andrew returns an hour later. I sit at the kitchen table, the ruined passport spread before him.
Whats this? he asks.
My passport. Your mother washed it with the jeans.
He flips through the soggy pages.
Blimey. How did it end up in the jeans?
I put it in after the bank and forgot to take it out.
So its your fault.
I stand up, furious.
What? No, I didnt ask her to wash anything!
She wanted to help!
Help? She ruined my passport! I have to replace it!
Andrew places the mess on the table.
Youll sort it out. People replace passports all the time.
Its not about the replacement. Its that your mother meddles in everything!
Shes ill, has nothing else to do. She cooks, cleans, helps.
I never asked for help!
He sighs, heads to Margarets room, leaving me alone at the table, eyes on the shredded pages.
The next day I call my friend Clare.
Clare, can I crash at your place?
Of course, whats happened?
I arrive that evening; Clare opens the door, pulls me into a hug.
You look exhausted. Whats going on?
We sit with tea, and I spill the whole saga.
She does it on purpose, Clare says firmly.
What?
Everything she does is to keep you under her thumb, to have you all to herself.
Why?
To keep her son close. Some mothers act like that.
I think it over.
Maybe it wasnt intentional. Shes just active.
Nat, think. Anyone would check pockets before a wash. Its basic common sense.
Maybe she forgot.
Or she didnt want to.
I shake my head.
She just doesnt think.
Back home Margaret decides to reorganise the kitchen cabinets, moving all the dishes around.
Ive tidied up. It was a hassle reaching everything before.
I open the cabinet. My favourite mugs are now on the top shelf, out of reach; the pots are shuffled, the pans are nowhere.
Margaret, put it back how it was.
No need, this is better!
Its inconvenient for me!
Youll get used to it.
I close the cabinet, head to the bedroom. Andrew is on the bed, scrolling on his phone.
Your mother moved everything again.
So what? Shell move it back if you dont like it.
She wont!
Nat, stop. Shes a sick person, she needs something to do.
Let her read, watch TV!
Shes spent her whole life keeping a house in order.
This is my house, not hers!
Andrew gets up.
Its our house, and my mothers while she stays.
When will she finally move out?
When the doctor says she can.
Youre heartless, Nat.
He storms out, slamming the door. I lie on the bed, face pressed into the pillow, wanting to scream but staying silent.
In the morning I take a day off to replace the passport. The post office is packed; I wait four hours for my turn. When I finally reach the clerk, she eyes the soggy remains.
Was it washed? she asks.
Yes.
It happens often. Youll need to fill out a loss report.
Its not lost, its ruined!
Just fill out the report; it speeds things up.
I complete the paperwork, pay the fee, and am told the new passport will be ready in ten days.
How will I manage without it? I have a bonus due at work!
You can get a temporary ID, but therell be another queue.
I leave the office angry and exhausted, sit on a bench, call Andrew.
Hows it going?
The passport will be ready in ten days. Ive lost half a day.
No worries, youll get over it.
Your mother needs to move out.
Silence.
What?
I cant take this any longer. Let her go back to her place.
Shes still not healed!
Shes walking without crutches now!
The doctor hasnt cleared her yet!
Then let her stay with someone else! With your sister, maybe?
Lenas flat is tiny; three kids in there!
What about us? Our flat is a twobedroom, were cramped already!
Just a bit longer, Nat.
I cant any more! Understand?
I hang up, sit on the bench, watching people rush past. I want to cry but the tears have run dry, leaving only an empty ache.
That evening I return home late, taking a detour to avoid Margaret. She isnt there.
Wheres your mother? I ask Andrew.
Shes gone to her sisters. Said she didnt want to bother us.
Relief and guilt wash over me.
Will she be back for long?
I dont know. Possibly forever.
We eat dinner in silence; Andrews clenched jaw and tense shoulders show his frustration. I sit, unsure what to say.
That night I cant sleep, replaying everything. Part of me knows Margaret really wanted to help. The other part wonders why she never asked.
In the morning Margaret calls.
Nat, can we talk?
Yes.
Im sorry about the passport, the sweater, everything. I see I overstepped.
Im surprised.
Thank you.
Im used to controlling everything. Ive been on my own all my life, responsible for everything. When I moved in I wanted to be useful, but I went too far.
Im at fault too. I was harsh.
No, you were right. This is your home, your rules. I should have asked.
We sit quietly.
Will you come back? I ask.
Do you want me to?
I think, then answer.
Yes. But lets set clear rules. Dont touch my things without asking. Dont move anything unless I say its okay. If you want to help, just ask first.
Agreed. And you speak up if something bothers you, dont keep it in.
Deal.
Margaret returns that evening with a cake as an apology. The three of us sit in the kitchen, sipping tea.
My mother says shell move back home soon, the doctor cleared her, Andrew says.
Dont rush, I reply. Stay a little longer, but stick to the new rules.
Margaret smiles.
Thank you, Nat.
My new passport arrives after ten days, crisp and clean. I tuck it into my bags dedicated slot, vowing never to put it in jean pockets again.
Margaret stays another month, then finally moves back to her own flat. On her way out she hugs me.
Thanks for putting up with me.
Do come over sometime.
Will do, but Ill call first.
When she leaves I feel both relief and a touch of sadness; Ive grown used to her stew, her TV chatter, her constant bustle.
Andrew embraces me.
Thanks for getting through this. I know it was tough.
It was, I admit. But were a family. We have to support each other.
Youre a good wife, and a good daughterinlaw.
And your mum is a good motherinlaw, just we needed time to click.
Sometimes Margaret drops by, brings a pie, helps around, but now she always asks permission first. And I always say yes, because help offered with respect feels nothing like interference.
The passport incident has become a family joke. Whenever anyone forgets something in a pocket, we say, What, did we lose a second passport? and we all laugh.
Its funny how a little shakeup can remind you what truly mattersrelationships and the ability to negotiate, not the objects themselves.
