My mother never quite saw eye-to-eye with her in-laws. She was English, they were South African, and in their eyes, no woman on earth was ever going to be "good enough" for their beloved son. Mum spent years feeling judged and under the microscopic lens of their constant, silent criticism. While my sister and I doted on our grandparents and looked forward to their Sunday visits, Mum spent those afternoons in a state of high-alert irritability.
Eventually, they passed away at a ripe old age. As a final tribute, Mum and Dad drove to Hermanus—the seaside town my grandparents had loved—to sprinkle their mixed ashes from a scenic cliff into the ocean.
It was meant to be a moment of closure. Mum took a cup of the remains and cast them out toward the water. But at that exact moment, the Cape wind whipped up in a sudden, mischievous gust. Instead of drifting gracefully to the sea, the ashes blew straight back, coating Mum’s face in a fine, grey mist of her late in-laws.
"Good God," Mum sputtered, wiping her face in disbelief. "They're having a go at me even in death!"
A couple of years ago, I asked mum if she believed in life after death. She didn't hesitate for a second. "I hope not," she remarked dryly. "That would probably mean I’d have to see my in-laws again."
