I had never had a good relationship with my mother-in-law. On the surface, Jacqui was friendly and civil, but underneath it was clear that she thought her son, Michael had ‘married beneath him’ and that she didn’t consider me good enough to be part of the wealthy Stephens clan. Jacqui and Michael had also had their troubles over the years, mostly over Jacqui’s favouritism of his sister, Marie.
After the death of her husband, Don, Jacqui got even worse. She constantly criticised my parenting and housekeeping skills. She would often arrive at 9.30am, just after Michael had left for work, Molly was at kindy and the baby was having a sleep, and I would be having my one uninterrupted cup of tea for the day. She would bustle in, look disapprovingly at me in my dressing gown, tut at the basketful of unfolded laundry, the breakfast dishes by the sink and the cat hair on the couch. Then she would spend the morning telling me how she was the perfect housewife; she raised two children, cooked wholesome meals for her family, kept a spotlessly clean house and was showered and dressed with a full face of make-up before her husband even woke up. Unfortunately, this advice did not coincide with practical demonstrations of her housework skills. She simply sat at the table and directed from behind a cup of coffee.
She was active, healthy and only in her early sixties, so when I received a phone call from the hospital, I was surprised to hear that Jacqui had had a mild stroke. Michael was interstate on a business trip, so he immediately arranged to be on the next flight home. I called our neighbour to mind the kids, then headed for the hospital. Michael’s sister Marie lived several hours away so I was the first to arrive at the hospital. Jacqui was in Intensive Care attached to tubes, wires and beeping machines. The doctor explained that the stroke was fairly mild, but they would monitor her closely for a couple of days because further strokes were possible.
I sat beside her and looked at her now-slightly asymmetrical face. “I need to tell you,” she whispered hoarsely. I had trouble understanding her and leaned in closer. “Michael … he’s not Don’s son,” she said. I raised my eyebrows but let her continue talking, as I could see it was a big effort for her. “Someone else … an affair. He was tall and dark. Looked like Don. No-one ever knew.”
She began to get quite agitated and her pale face turned red with the effort of trying to sit up. She suddenly gained a new strength to her voice and I understood her next sentence perfectly. “My will … the Stephens money has to go to Don’s blood — all of it has to go to Marie. Call my lawyer.”
I sat impassively, absorbing all this new information. Suddenly the machines attached to Jacqui began beeping furiously and medical staff came running. I edged my way out of the room and sat on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the hallway. The doctor came out not long after and informed me that Jacqui had had a massive stroke and she was in a coma and that we shouldn’t expect her to regain consciousness.
Jacqui died three weeks later without ever waking up. Michael and Marie often asked me about my last hour with Jacqui, and without thinking twice, I told them that she had talked about how much she loved both her children, and that she hoped they would live their lives to the fullest once she was gone.
We paid off our mortgage with the money that Jacqui left us in her will, and we now have a cleaner twice a week. Every time I hear Donna turn on the vacuum, I smile and think of Jacqui, the perfect housewife.
Picture posed by model.
