“Your mum’s not going anywhere! You’re the one who’ll end up out on the pavement!” shouted her husband, conveniently forgetting whose name was on the lease.
Emily stood by the bay window. The July sun beat down on London, heat rising in waves off the pavement. In the shared garden below, kids darted between the oaks, chasing shade like it was the last ice lolly.
“Em, where’s my shirt?” came from the bedroom. “The blue-checked one!”
“Hanging in the wardrobe,” she answered without turning. “Top shelf.”
James appeared in the doorway, still buttoning the shirt he’d dug out. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the rough hands of a plumber. Once, those hands had made her feel safe.
“Listen,” he said, adjusting his collar. “Mum’s coming round tonight. Give the place a proper clean, yeah? Last time she moaned all evening about dust bunnies.”
Emily slowly turned. That familiar knot twisted in her stomach.
“Your mum always finds something,” she said quietly. “Last time the roast was too dry, before that the mash was lumpy.”
“Then do better,” James shrugged, like he was commenting on the footie scores. “She’s only trying to help, and you take it personal.”
Emily clenched her fists. This flat was hers. She’d got the two-bed through the council before they’d even met, saved every penny to furnish it just so. And now Margaret waltzed in every Sunday, rearranged the cushions, and lectured her on where the bloody tea towels belonged.
“Jamie, we live in *my* flat,” Emily reminded him. “Maybe remember that?”
Her husband froze, one hand already on the doorknob.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” James’s voice went dangerously low. “That I don’t belong here?”
“I mean your mum acts like she owns the place,” Emily stepped closer. “And you let her.”
“Mum cares about us!” James turned fully toward her. “About *family*! Christ, she even gave up her own place for our Dave!”
Emily gave a bitter laugh. That old chestnut about “helping the kids” was wearing thin.
“Your mum gave Dave a one-bed in Croydon two years back,” she said slowly. “So what? Now she gets to redecorate my home?”
“*Our* home!” James barked. “We’re married!”
“On your twenty-grand salary, we’d be renting a cupboard in bloody Barking,” the words slipped out before she could stop them.
His face darkened. He loomed over her, all six-foot-something of simmering rage.
“So now it’s about money?” His voice shook. “Because I don’t earn enough for your tastes?”
“I’m not having a go,” Emily lifted her chin. “Just stating facts. Your mum’s renting now because she handed Dave her flat. Yet she lectures *us* on how to live.”
“Dave needed help!” James turned to the window. “Young family, trying for a baby!”
“Baby,” Emily repeated. “Always about babies.”
James spun back around. That old fire lit in his eyes.
“And what, isn’t it time? Five years married and you keep putting it off. A proper wife wants kids!”
“On *what*, Jamie?” Emily spread her hands. “Your wages? Know how much nappies cost? School uniforms? GP fees?”
“We’d manage,” he waved it off. “Everyone does!”
“Everyone,” Emily shook her head. “And I’d be stuck on maternity pay while you break your back fixing pipes for pennies?”
Outside, pigeons cooed in the eaves. James was silent, jaw working. Emily watched his temple twitch.
“Right,” he finally said, turning back. “Enough. Mum’s got problems.”
“What now?” Emily stepped away from the window.
“She can’t rent anymore,” James rubbed his neck. “Pension doesn’t cover it, landlady doubled the rent.”
Emily nodded. Margaret had been moaning for months about prices. Only logical she’d move in with Daveinto the very flat she’d gifted him.
“I see,” Emily said. “So Dave’s lot will have to squeeze in.”
James stiffened. His eyes turned flinty.
“Mum’s moving in *here*,” he declared. “Temporary, till she sorts something.”
Emily froze. The words echoed like a tube announcement.
“*Here*?” she repeated. “In this flat?”
“Yeah, here!” James raised his voice. “What’s the issue? Plenty of space.”
“Jamie, where’s she sleeping? The *sofa*?”
“What’s wrong with that?” he crossed his arms. “Mum sacrificed everything for us, and you’re being selfish!”
Emily stepped back against the wallpaper. Indignation bubbled like a kettle.
“Why not with Dave?” she asked quietly. “He’s got the flat she gave him.”
“They’ve got a *kid*!” James roared. “They need the room! Aren’t *we* family too?”
“We are, but this flat’s *mine*,” Emily reminded.
James’s face purpled. He stepped closer.
“Cold-hearted! Always thinking of yourself! A decent wife would stand by her bloke in hard times!”
Emily pressed into the wall. He was too close, his aftershave stifling.
“Won’t give me kids, least you can do is help family!” he went on. “Mum gave up *everything* for us!”
“Jamie, listen” Emily began, but he cut her off.
“Maybe you don’t *want* family? Just say it!”
Emily dropped her gaze. James knew how to twist the knife, find every soft spot. Guilt washed over her.
“Fine,” she said quietly. “She can stay a bit.”
A week later, Margaret moved into their lounge. She brought three suitcases and immediately started rearranging. Telly went by the window, sofa against the wall, Emily’s ferns exiled to the fire escape.
“Needs more light in here,” the mother-in-law explained as she shoved furniture. “And those plants just collect mites.”
Emily silently watched her lounge morph into a stranger’s bedsit. James hauled boxes, doting as ever.
“Mum, you sure you’re comfy here?” he asked gently.
“I’ll cope,” sighed Margaret. “Though it’s a bit poky.”
Three months passed. Emily became a ghost in her own home. She crept about, terrified of disturbing Margaret. Apologised for every creak, every cough.
Margaret took full command. She binned Emily’s fabric softener, replaced it with own-brand. Banned her favourite posh biscuits.
“These are daylight robbery, get the basics,” she ordered in Tesco. “No need to flash cash.”
Mornings, Emily cleaned under Margaret’s beady eye. One bin day, something familiar caught her eye. She bent down and froze.
Her childhood scrapbook. The one with primary school photos. Her only record of being little.
Hands shaking, Emily pulled it out, tea-stained and reeking of bin juice.
“Margaret,” she called, walking into the lounge. “Why was this in the rubbish?”
Her mother-in-law didn’t glance up from *Countdown*.
“That? Binned it. Just clutter, taking up room.”
“These are my *childhood* photos!” Emily’s voice cracked.
“Ancient history,” Margaret waved her off. “Why hoard it?”
Something snapped. Three months of being a stranger in her own life boiled over.
“*Out*!” she screamed. “Get *out* of my flat right now!”
Margaret shot off the sofa, eyes blazing.
“How *dare* you speak to elders like that!” she shrieked. “Know your place!”
Dishevelled James burst from the bedroom. Hearing shouts, he instantly sided with Mum.
“Mum’s not going anywhere!” he roared at his wife. “*You’ll* be the one on the street!”
But inside Emily, something had set like concrete. The scream died in her throat. She looked at her husband and his mother with glacial calm. Rage gave way to crystal clarity.
“The lease is in *my* name,” Emily said quietly but steel-edged. “Only I decide who lives here.”
“You *bitch*!” James stepped toward her, face crimson. “I’m your *husband*!”
“Ex-husband,” Emily corrected, turning to the cupboard.
She yanked out a duffel bag and started shoving in Margaret’s thingsblouses, skirts, dressing gownsno care for folding.
“You’ve lost the plot!” James shouted. “Pack it in!”
Emily didn’t answer. She dragged slippers from under the sofa, chucked them in the bag. Margaret fluttered, trying to grab her knickers back.
“Love, think this through!” her voice quivered with outrage. “We’re *family*!”
“*Family*?” Emily whirled around. “Family doesn’t bin childhood memories!”
Margaret shrunk back. James made a grab for the bag, but Emily sidestepped.
“Mum gave *everything* for her kids!” he shouted. “And you’re chucking her out like rubbish!”
“Five years I put up with your nonsense,” Emily zipped the bulging bag. “Three months I’ve tiptoed in *my own home*!”
She marched to the bedroom for James’s thingsjumpers, shirts, joggersall into another bag. James followed, seizing her wrist.
“Think! Where do we *go*?”
“Not my problem,” Emily wrenched free. “Try Dave’s.”
“No *room* at Dave’s!” Margaret wailed from the lounge. “They’ve got a *baby*!”
“And *I’ve* got *me*!” Emily shouted back, hauling both bags to the door.
She returned for shoes, toiletries, tat.
“You’ll die alone!” James spat, yanking on his trainers. “You’ll come crawling back begging!”
Emily held the door wide. Margaret sniffled, cramming the last of her bits into a carrier bag.
“Dear, reconsider,” she pleaded. “Where will we *live*?”
“Where you lived before *me*,” Emily replied.
James grabbed his bag, stormed out. On the landing he turned, face twisted with hate.
Margaret shuffled out last, dragging her bags. From the stairs, she shot back:
“Ungrateful cow! We only ever wanted what’s *best* for you!”
Emily shut the door. Turned the deadbolt twice, slid the chain. Shouts, stomping, lift doors clanged from the stairwell.
Then silence.
Emily leaned against the door, listening to her own breath. For the first time in months, no blaring telly, no sofa springs groaning under Margaret’s weight.
She walked into the lounge. Shoved the sofa back, turned the telly around. Rescued her ferns from the fire escape.
Then she sat, took the salvaged scrapbook in her hands. Flicked through the pagesschool plays, a birthday with five candles, nursery graduation.
And suddenly she laughed. Soft at first, then belly-deep. The laughter turned to sobs, then back to laughter. She howled till her ribs ached, clutching the book to her chest.
The flat was hers again. *Hers* alone.
