**The Golden Son-in-Law Can Do No Wrong**
“Finally!” the head accountant, Margaret, beamed as Emily walked into her office. “Had a proper holiday, then? I can tell—you’re glowing! Meanwhile, back here—”
“Oh, Margaret, stop—you look wonderful!”
“Flatterer,” Margaret waved her off, feigning modesty, though clearly pleased. “Go on then, catch me up. Everyone still alive and kicking?” Emily played along—the gossip wasn’t her priority, but Margaret loved keeping things “friendly,” insisting the office was “one big family.”
“Oh, I’ve got news for you!” Margaret’s eyes widened dramatically. “Charlotte’s divorced her husband!”
“What? She never mentioned—”
“Never planned to, but managed it in a fortnight! Roped in half the town to speed things up.”
“But why? They hadn’t lived together for ages. I thought—”
“You’ll never believe what came out! Did you know her backstory?”
“Bits and pieces,” Emily nodded, recalling how Charlotte, the finance director, had once shared her tale…
***
Charlotte entered the world because her grandparents *willed* it.
Harry, a decorated war hero, met Edith, the nurse who dragged him off the battlefield. They married right after the war, both 27, and built a sturdy, quiet life in their Yorkshire village. Children never came—until, against all odds, at 47, Edith gave birth to a daughter: Mary.
Mary was brilliant—top of her class, off to university, her parents’ pride. But as years passed, one thing nagged: no husband, no grandchildren.
“We’re not getting any younger,” Harry and Edith would sigh. “Just *one* grandchild to hold?”
So Mary obliged. Found a man: tall, handsome, sharp, no vices. A whirlwind later, baby Charlotte arrived. Mary breastfed her six months, then handed her over. “You wanted her? Here. I’m off to London—career to chase.”
Seventy and frail, Edith and Harry didn’t flinch. They doted on Charlotte, though they warned Mary: “Visit. Remember—we won’t be here forever.”
Mary kept her word, visiting weekly for years. She and Charlotte grew close. But Mary never married.
***
Harry and Edith died within months of each other. Mary returned home—no London flat, no dragging Charlotte through rentals.
Years passed. Charlotte aced school, university, and at 19, married. Against Mary’s protests. “I love him,” she insisted.
Worse? He was their local bobby. Mary dreaded meeting him—until she did.
Oliver was solid. Kind, responsible, devoted. The way he looked at Charlotte? No wonder she’d married him. The wedding was small but merry, and soon, they all lived together: Charlotte, Oliver, and Mary.
No clashes. Just easy harmony. Mary adored Oliver—within months, she called him “son.” The only tension? Oliver worked too much.
“*Serve*,” he’d correct, grinning. “I’m at the public’s beck and call.”
Charlotte adjusted. Lonely at times, but Mary, who’d only lived with parents and daughter, didn’t quite grasp her frustration.
Still, they were happy. Mary’s house was spacious, but Charlotte and Oliver queued for a council flat. “Mum, relax,” Charlotte laughed. “We’re staying with you. Who knows how long the waitlist is? And if we have a baby—”
“Brilliant!” Mary brightened. “Hadn’t thought of that.”
***
Years rolled on. No baby. Charlotte climbed the corporate ladder; Oliver remained a bobby.
The exhaustion built. While Mary and Oliver stayed thick as thieves, Charlotte and Oliver—less so.
Then, the final straw.
“Our flat’s come up,” Oliver muttered at dinner, shovelling in roast potatoes.
“What flat?” Charlotte blinked.
“The *council flat*, darling!” Mary chimed. “Right, love?”
Oliver nodded. “Turned it down. No need—plenty of room here. For the three of us.”
Charlotte bolted outside, ran blindly. *Three of us. He resents me. No children. No discussion. Done.*
She returned, icy. “I’m leaving. In two days.”
“Why?” Oliver feigned surprise.
“To *live*,” she spat. “Without you.”
And she left. Mary and Oliver stayed.
***
“They *still* live together?” Emily gasped when Charlotte shared her story.
“Yep.”
“Even divorced?”
“Oh, we’re not *divorced*. Mum adores Oliver—he’s like a son. Understand?”
“Not really,” Emily admitted. “Doesn’t he mind?”
“Emily, our village isn’t London. Things are… simpler. Officially, he’s still my husband. So no one bats an eye. And honestly? It’s easier. Mum’s not alone.”
“Four years like this? No reconciliation?”
“Nope. Don’t even think about it.”
“Shame,” Emily grinned. “You could be *truly* free.”
“I *am* free,” Charlotte shot back, smiling.
***
Now, Margaret relayed the same tale—with a twist.
“Guess what?” She leaned in. “Oliver—Charlotte’s *ex*—has *another family*!”
“No!”
“Two sons! And the mother? A *Romani woman*!”
Emily whistled. “*That* explains the quick divorce. No loss.”
“Wait—there’s more.” Margaret’s voice dropped. “He *still* lives with Mary!”
“What?”
“Take that as you will…”
Emily shrugged. “Christ. Makes our lives look dull, Margaret.”
