Hired to Be the World's Worst Daughter in Law Chapter 2

Finally, silence.

My mother-in-law was still leaning against the wall, visibly trembling.

I helped her sit down, then took a long, hard look around this college professor's house. Honestly, a rat would cry walking through this place.

The large living room had nothing but a broken-legged dining table and a few low stools. Half the curtains were missing, probably borrowed by a relative.

“Gordon’s wife… are you hungry?”

Cecilia shuffled out of the kitchen, carefully holding a bowl. It was a bowl of pale, yellow custard, with two rock-hard, burnt cornbread muffins next to it.

I looked at the custard, then at Cecilia’s bone-thin frame. Was this woman Saint Mary in a past life? She was practically starving but still offering me the last bite of food.

“Mom, I’m not hungry. You eat it.”

I gently pushed the bowl back, then got straight to business.

“Mom, Gordon asked me to find out: Who has borrowed our things?”

The very-real-life Saint Cecilia’s eyes welled up again.

She turned and came back with a huge stack of crumpled, stained papers. They were IOUs. Dozens of them for cash. Plus, the next-door neighbor, Ms. Thompson, had borrowed the sewing machine for her daughter’s school uniform. Mr.Wayne, who lived downstairs, had borrowed the bicycle for his commute.

This wasn't borrowing; this was running the Hewitt home like a free community supply store.

“Mom, you are the personification of 'If I don't go to hell, who will?'” I closed the pile of notes, trying to stifle a laugh that was half-amusement, half-rage.

I stood up and cracked my knuckles.

“Gordon told me before he left: As of today, I run this house.” I met her eye. “First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going collecting. What they took, they’ll cough up. What they ate, they’ll pay for.”

The next morning, before the sun was fully up, I dressed in my shabbiest clothes, grabbed a borrowed bullhorn, and pulled my mother-in-law to the gate of the faculty complex.

It was peak commuting time. People were streaming past.

I planted myself in front of the gate, picked up the bullhorn, and started screaming.

“Is that you, Mr. Thompson? Five years ago, you borrowed five hundred dollars from my mother-in-law, Cecilia Hewitt, to build a new extension on your cabin. Is the cabin comfortable? When are you going to repay the money?”

“Ms. Davis! Oh, that’s a gorgeous ’74 Schwinn cruiser you’re riding! Your mother borrowed our family bike three years ago, saying you needed it for a short commute. You still haven’t bought your own? Are you holding onto it to pass down to your grandkids?”

“Hey, hey, Professor Zhou, don't walk so fast! You said you desperately needed three hundred dollars last spring. My mother is practically begging for scraps! Is this how an esteemed academic behaves?”

My rant turned every named person’s face black as a cast-iron skillet.

My mother-in-law watched my performance, deeply impressed, but also terrified. Every time someone tried to object, she would chime in, her eyes swimming with tears:

“Frankie is right.”

“My daughter-in-law speaks the truth.”

“Frankie is not wrong.”

The commuters started pointing and whispering.

“Isn’t that Professor Hewitt’s mother? She looks so distraught.”

“I heard theWaynes owe them a lot. That’s disgusting.”

“Five hundred dollars is a huge sum! They’re heartless.”

We stood there, a synchronized tag-team of shame, blocking the gate, refusing to let anyone pass. Within two minutes, the families of the debtors started running out, hysterical.

“Stop shouting! Stop shouting!”

“Cecilia! What in God’s name are you doing?”

“Cecilia! We can discuss this privately, can’t we?”

“Gordon’s mother! Do you have to cause a scene this early? My face is ruined!”