My mother-in-law turned up on my porch with three suitcases and called the police when I wouldn’t let her in. Then the officer asked my husband one straightforward question about who owned the house — and the silence that followed was the ugliest thing I have ever stood through.

PART 1 — WHO OWNS THE PROPERTY

At seventeen minutes past four on a Thursday my husband sent me a text.

Mum’s moving in. It’s already been decided.

Fifty-four minutes later she was on my front porch with three suitcases.

I rang him.

“What does already been decided mean?”

“She needs somewhere for a while.”

“How long?”

“A few weeks. Couple of months.”

I closed the laptop.

“And when were you going to ask me?”

“She’s my mother.”

“I know who she is.”

He sighed at me, which he does.

“Her rent’s gone up. She hates that flat. She’s on her own. Halla can’t have her.”

“Why not?”

“She needs the spare room for work.”

I sat and looked at the wall for a second.

“So Halla’s office stays and mine doesn’t.”

“You’re only home three days a week. We can put your desk upstairs.”

That is when I understood that the entire arrangement already existed and that I was being informed of my part in it.

“You’ve worked all of it out already, Ardan.”

He said we would talk about it properly when he got in.

I told him to ring his mother before she turned up.

And there was a pause on that line that went on a very long time.