My mother will be moving in with us, he said, slamming the door so hard the chandelier in the hallway rattled.
For weeks the words echoed in my mind like a record stuck on a groove. The tea in my cup had long gone cold, and I lingered at the kitchen table, unable to summon the will to rise. My husbands remark, spoken just before he left for work, replayed over and over.
James, my husband, had never spoken to me in such a cold, detached tone in our twentythree years together. Wed argued, wed bickered, but never with that icy detachment. It felt as if a stranger, not my husband, stood before me.
I carried the empty cup to the sink and walked to the window. From the ninthfloor flat we could see the park below, its autumn trees a blaze of gold and crimson. James and I had chosen this flat together, scrimping and saving, denying ourselves many comforts. It was a threebedroom, spacious flat a living room and two bedrooms. One for us, the other for future children, we had dreamed. Children never came. The second bedroom became Jamess study, where he toiled late into the night, bringing home office work.
Now that room would belong to Margaret, his mother.
Margaret had always been a formidable woman domineering, used to controlling everything. James was her only son, born late in her life when hope seemed a thin thread. She adored him to a fevered degree, hovering over his every step. When he announced his intention to marry me, she smiled at the wedding but her eyes remained as cold as winter ice.
In the early years after our wedding, Margaret lived her own life, teaching mathematics at a secondary school, visiting us only occasionally. Three weeks ago she suffered a mild stroke. Though she recovered quickly, doctors insisted she could no longer live alone without constant supervision.
I did not object to helping her, but I suggested hiring a livein carer. James refused outright I wont let anyone else near my mother. Yesterday evening he declared, without consulting me, that his mother would move in. No discussion, just a fait accompli. This morning, when I timidly tried to protest, he unleashed that dreadful line once more.
The phone rang, pulling me from my thoughts. The caller ID displayed a familiar name.
Hello, Sarah, I heard my friends weary voice.
Emily, you sound as if youre not glad to hear me, Sarah said, concern threading her tone. Whats happened?
Margaret is moving in, I said, sinking onto the sofa. James just put it in my face. He said either accept it or leave.
Goodness! Sarah exclaimed. Whens the move?
This Saturday. James has already arranged the removers bed, wardrobe, armchair, I covered my eyes. You know the kind of relationship we have. How will we live under the same roof?
Indeed, Sarah sighed. I remember how she scolded you at your birthday last year for oversalting the soup, right there in front of all the guests.
Exactly, I laughed bitterly. Now imagine that every day.
Maybe you should speak to James calmly, without emotion, and lay out your worries, Sarah suggested.
I tried. He wont listen. He says the decisions made and theres nothing to discuss.
Then perhaps you should talk directly to Margaret, start with a clean slate. Shes an elderly woman now; it must be hard for her.
I hesitated. After years of mutual dislike, could a fresh start even be possible?
I fear shell take any overture as a sign of weakness, I admitted.
Never know until you try, Sarah replied philosophically. Lets meet tonight, have a cuppa at the Café Aquamarine, clear your head.
Alright, I agreed. Seven oclock?
Deal. And dont worry, things will settle.
After hanging up I felt a little lighter. Sarah had always been my rock. Wed been friends since school, weathering first loves, university admissions, weddings, and heartbreaks. Shed survived a divorce; Id endured several failed attempts at motherhood. In hard times wed always been there for each other.
I still had to decide my next move. Leave? But where would I go? My whole life revolved around this house and James. Despite our spats, I loved him, and I knew he loved me. He was torn between his wife and his mother, and hed chosen the mother. Could I blame him?
That evening at the café Sarah listened, propping her chin on her hand, nodding occasionally.
So, what have you decided? she asked after Id poured out my heart.
Nothing yet, I said, stirring the lukewarm tea. I cant just walk away after all these years.
Of course not, she agreed. But you cant live in constant tension either. Margaret will monitor your every move, critique everything from your soup to your hairdo.
I know, I sighed. Im at a loss.
What if you try a compromise? Perhaps find her a flat nearby, visit daily, help with chores?
I suggested that, I shook my head. James said no. Mother must live with him. Its sacred.
Right, Sarah mused. Maybe you should try to mend things with Margaret for the sake of the family.
How? I asked, fatigue in my eyes. Ive tried for years. She thinks I stole her son.
Approach her not as a daughterinlaw but as a daughter, Sarah leaned in. Shes a retired teacher, alone, recovering from a stroke. She might simply be afraid of ending up completely solitary.
The thought struck me anew. I had always seen Margaret as a rival, not as a lonely old woman needing support.
You may be right, I finally said. It cant get any worse.
Good. Start small. Invite her for tea before the move, discuss how to organise the space so it works for everyone.
When I returned home, I found James in the sitting room, bent over his laptop, frowning at some document. He looked up as I entered.
Hello, he said, voice tentative.
Hi, I replied, hanging my coat and heading toward the kitchen.
James followed.
Tanya, we need to talk, he said, stopping at the doorway while I fetched mugs from the cupboard. I I was too harsh this morning. I shouldnt have spoken like that.
You were right to be harsh, I answered calmly, placing the kettle on the stove. But you know I cant leave my mother alone.
I get that, he said, moving closer. After what happened I cant abandon her.
I understand, I said, turning to face him. Im not saying she should be alone. I just wish youd discussed it with me first, not presented it as a fait accompli.
Youre right, he lowered his eyes. I guessed youd object and froze.
Im not against helping your mother, I said softly. Im just scared we wont get along under one roof. You know our history.
I know, he sighed. I hope you both can find common ground, for my sake and ours.
I watched his greying temples, the lines around his eyes, and recalled how hed courted me at university, how wed dreamed of a future while sitting on a bench in the park. Twentythree years together was no small thing.
Ill try, I said at last. But you have to help me. Dont leave me to face her alone. Be a mediator. If anything goes awry, well discuss it together, agreed?
Agreed, James breathed a sigh of relief and hugged me. Thank you, love. I knew youd understand.
The next day I called Margaret and invited her for tea. She was surprised but accepted. I booked a taxi, as she still avoided public transport after her stroke.
At three oclock the doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, straight as a flagpole despite her frailty, her silver hair neatly pinned, eyes sharp.
Good afternoon, Margaret, I said, forcing a smile. Please, come in.
Good afternoon, Emily, she replied curtly, stepping inside. Is James at work?
Yes, hell be late tonight. Hes finishing a project.
Always overworking himself, she muttered, hanging her coat. Hes been like that since childhood, always trying to prove something to his father.
I led her to the sitting room where a tray of tea, scones, and fresh fruit awaited. She settled into an armchair, scanning the room.
Your curtains are new? she asked.
Yes, we put them up last autumn, I answered, pouring tea. How are you feeling? James told me youre improving.
Better, though the weakness remains and my blood pressure still spikes, she said, lifting the cup. The doctor says Im recovering well for my age.
Silence fell. I wasnt sure how to broach the subject of moving in.
At some point James mentioned Id be living here, she finally said.
Yes, I nodded. In your own room. Weve already begun clearing it.
I know youre not happy about it, she continued, fixing me with a steady gaze. You could deny it. Id be in your place too.
I blinked, taken aback by her candour.
I Im worried well clash. Were very different.
Indeed, she agreed. Youre young and modern; Im an old woman with outdated views. But theres no choice. James has decided, so it shall be.
In her voice I sensed fatigue, resignation, maybe even a hint of fear.
Margaret, I began gently, perhaps we could try to get along for Jamess sake. We both love him, after all.
She lifted her head, surprised by the proposal.
Yes, we love him each in our own way, she said slowly. I had suggested James hire a carer so I could stay in my flat, but he insisted I move in with you.
I know, I said, feeling a flicker of solidarity. Hes stubborn when it comes to family.
Stubbornness runs in the family, she chuckled. Were all a bit obstinate.
For the first time in years Margaret spoke to me almost as a friend.
Lets make an agreement, I said firmly. Youll have your own space where you can rest and watch television. Ill handle the cooking, but if you need something special, just tell me.
She listened, tilting her head slightly.
And I wont interfere in your marriage, I added. But please, dont criticise me in front of James. If you have concerns, say them to me directly.
Fair enough, she replied. Ill try. I could also help around the house I can sort grains, peel vegetables, and I still knit. I remember the sweater I made for James when he graduated.
Really? I asked, surprised. He still keeps that sweater.
Yes, he treasures it, she said, a faint smile softening her features.
We talked for another hour, the first genuine conversation in over two decades. I told her about my work at the public library and my plans to start a reading club. She spoke of former pupils, many now parents, some even grandparents. When it was time to leave, she hesitantly placed her hand on mine.
Thank you for the tea and the talk, she said. Ill try not to be a burden.
Youll be fine, I replied, helping her into her coat. Well manage.
That night James returned home to find us both in the kitchen, the scent of apple pie filling the air. Margaret was directing me, and I was following her instructions.
Blimey! James exclaimed, eyes wide. You two actually got along?
Dont exaggerate, Margaret retorted. Im just teaching your wife how to make a proper apple crumble, not that bland thing you usually serve.
Mother! James protested.
Its all good, I said, smiling. Weve agreed to be honest with each other. I really want to learn this recipe.
James shook his head, still in disbelief.
Later, as we lay in bed, I whispered, I think it will be okay. Not perfect, but well get through it.
I always knew you could find common ground with her, he said, pulling me close. Thank you for being patient, for staying.
And thank you for giving me a chance to know your mother better, I replied. Shes difficult, but theres a genuine heart there, and she loves you dearly.
I love you both, James replied, smiling.
The following Saturday Margarets belongings arrived a modest bed, a comfortable armchair, a few boxes of books and photographs. I helped her settle the former study into a cosy bedroom.
Its very snug, she said, looking around. Thank you for making space for me.
Its now your room, I replied. Make yourself at home.
That evening the three of us dined together. James recounted humorous anecdotes from work, Margaret recalled his childhood antics, and for the first time in years I felt a strange sense of peace.
It wasnt all smooth. Within the first week Margaret criticised the way I ironed Jamess shirts. She soon apologised, remembering our agreement. Minor spats over television volume, heating, and open windows flared up now and then, but we learned to compromise. Margaret began knocking before entering rooms; I started preparing simpler meals suitable for her delicate stomach. James took on the role of peacemaker whenever tensions rose.
A month after the move I found Margaret in the sitting room, leafing through an old photo album.
May I join you? I asked.
Of course, she said, moving the chair aside. Look, this is James at age ten, holding a medal from the maths Olympiad.
How serious he was, I laughed.
Hes always been responsible, just like his father, Victor. He promised to finish what he started.
I asked her to tell more about Victor, since James rarely spoke of his father.
He died of a heart attack when James was fifteen, she sighed. It was sudden; nobody was prepared. Heres a picture of us on our wedding day.
The photo showed a young woman in a white dress and a tall man in a crisp suit, both smiling.
You were beautiful, I said sincerely.
We were, once, she replied with a soft chuckle. Time takes its toll wrinkles, grey hair After Victors death I swore I wouldnt let anyone close again, fearing more loss. I think I overprotected James.
And when I appeared she continued, eyes narrowing. I saw you as a threat, thought youd take him from me. Its foolish, but fear is irrational when it concerns children.
I understand, I whispered. I hold no grudge.
She gazed at me for a long moment.
The thing I regret most is that you have no children, she said quietly. James would make a wonderful father.
Yes, I whispered, lowering my eyes. We tried, but it never happened.
I know, she said gently. James told me about your attempts, about the treatments. Hes been worried, and so have I.
A tear slipped down my cheek. Thank you, I murmured. That means a lot.
When James returned home later, he found us at the kitchen table, both stirring batter for the family apple crumble. Margaret was directing, and I was following her lead.
Whoa! he shouted, stepping into the doorway. You two are actually friends?
Dont make a fuss, Margaret replied wryly. Im just showing your wife how to bake a proper crumble, not that tasteless mush you usually serve.
Mother! James protested again.
Its fine, I said, smiling. Weve agreed to be honest with each other, and I really want to master this recipe. It smells wonderful.
James shook his head, still amazed.
That night, as I lay awake, I thought of how easily our family could have shattered over misunderstanding and stubbornness. Sometimes a small step toward another can prevent a great loss.
Living under one roof with Margaret wont be easy, but now I know its possible. Two women, each loving the same man in her own way, can learn to at least respect one anotherfor his sake and for their own. Perhaps, in time, genuine affection will bloom. After all, isnt that the essence of family: accepting each others flaws, learning forgiveness, finding compromise? True wisdom lies not in fleeing difficulties, but in mustering the courage to overcome them.
