**A Discovery in the Attic**
I never understood why my mother-in-law despised me—until I stumbled upon her letters in my father’s old attic.
It was a bank holiday weekend, and the sun hung low over the Cotswolds as we drove to visit Linda. My husband, Edward, hummed along to “Rule, Britannia!” tapping the steering wheel, oblivious to my silence. I stared out at the rolling hills, my arms crossed, dreading the inevitable criticism.
“Cheer up, love,” Edward said, nudging me gently. “It’s just for the weekend.”
“She loathes me,” I muttered. “Nothing I do is ever right—not my roast, not my dresses, not even the way I pour tea.”
Edward sighed. “She’s stubborn, but she doesn’t mean half of it. Just ignore her.”
Easier said than done.
When we arrived, Linda’s garden was overgrown—dandelions sprouting between the cobblestones, ivy strangling the rose bushes.
“I’ve offered to hire a gardener,” I said under my breath.
“You know Mum—she’d rather wrestle the weeds herself,” Edward replied fondly.
Linda greeted us at the door, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Edward! The roast’s drying out—come in before it’s ruined.” She barely glanced at me. “Oh. You’re here too.”
Dinner was excruciating. Linda’s Yorkshire puddings were perfect, of course, while mine were—according to her—“a touch heavy.” Edward’s shirt had a tiny speck of gravy, and she tutted, dabbing at it. “Honestly, Beatrice, can’t you keep him presentable?”
I excused myself to wash up, gripping the sink until my knuckles whitened. Behind me, their voices carried.
“Must you torment her?” Edward asked.
“I’m your mother. I know what’s best,” Linda snapped.
Something in me snapped too. I marched back in. “Right. Since we’re being honest—your garden’s a disgrace. I’ve offered help, but you’d rather wallow in pride than accept kindness.”
Linda’s face crumpled. Edward looked horrified. I grabbed my coat and fled.
I took a cab to my late father’s cottage in Devon—empty now, frozen in time. In the attic, beneath cricket bats and moth-eaten jumpers, I found a bundle of letters.
Linda’s handwriting.
Turns out, she and my father had been sweethearts decades ago. His rejection had haunted her—and now I, his daughter, bore the brunt of that pain.
I returned, embracing Linda before she could speak. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “For him, for me, for all of it.”
She clung to me, stiff at first, then softening. No words were needed.
The past was laid to rest—and for the first time, we understood each other.