“Love, my mum’ll stay with us. Yours, you can head up to the cottage,” James said, deadset.
“Hey, how about we go to the theatre on Saturday?” Poppy asked, stirring the soup on the hob. “There’s a new playLaura raved about it.”
James tore his eyes away from the telly and looked at her.
“Theatre? I don’t know, I’m knackered after the week.”
“You’re always knackered,” Poppy sighed. “We haven’t been out together in ages.”
“Fine, we’ll see,” James muttered, glancing back at the screen.
Poppy pursed her lips. Same old “we’ll see”, “later”, “maybe”. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her to expect the excuses, though getting used to them wasnt the same as accepting them.
“Poppy,” she called, turning the stove off, “we really need to talk.”
“About what?” he didnt look away from the football match.
“About my mum. She called todayher cottage roofs leaking after the rain, needs fixing. I thought maybe she could move in with us for a couple of weeks while the work gets done.”
James frowned.
“My mum called too. Shes got a renovation starting, and she wanted to move in as well.”
Poppy sat down at the table.
“So both of them stay? There’s room.”
“No,” James shook his head. “Two mums under one roof is too much. They’ll end up stepping on each other’s toes.”
“They wont,” Poppy protested. “They get along fine.”
James got up, went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, drank, then turned back to her.
“My mum will live here. Yours, you can head up to the cottage,” he declared, firm as a rock.
Poppy felt a chill run through her.
“So what, then? My mum stays at the leaking cottage, yours stays here?” she asked.
“Exactly,” James shrugged. “My mum’s almost sixtyfive, its hard for her to be out on a building site. Yours is younger, she can manage.”
“My mum’s sixtytwo!” Poppy snapped. “Three years isnt a lot.”
“There is a difference,” James said stubbornly. “Besides, my mums ill, she needs peace.”
“My mum’s not ill! Her blood pressure spikes, her back aches!”
“Everyone aches,” James waved it off. “Bottom line: Ive decided. My mum arrives the day after tomorrow, and your mum can stay at the cottage.”
He turned back to the telly. Poppy stood in the kitchen, stunned. How could he just decide that, without even a chat?
“James, we havent finished.”
“Ive got nothing more to say,” he flicked channels. “Its settled.”
“Its not settled!” Poppys anger rose like a wave. “This is my flat too! I live here, I have a say!”
“The lease is in my name,” James said coldly. “I decide.”
Poppy went quiet, feeling like her voice didnt count because the flat was technically his.
“Great,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “Just great.”
She retreated to the bedroom, shut the door, collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. Hurt and fury boiled upshe wanted to shout, to cry, to smash dishesbut she just sat there, silent.
That evening they didnt speak a word. Poppy set the table in silence, James ate in silence and went back to his programmes. When they finally went to bed, each turned to their own wall.
The next morning James left for work without a goodbye. Poppy called her mum.
“Mum, Im sorry, but you cant come over. James his mum also needs a place, theres not enough room.”
“Its alright, love,” Dorothy Clarke answered cheerfully. “Ill stay at the cottage, nothing I cant manage.”
“But the roofs leaking!” Poppys voice cracked.
“Well just tape it up, put out buckets. Ill get through it. Dont worry.”
Poppy hung up and burst into tears. Her mum would be stuck under a leaky roof, while Jamess mum would be cosy in their flat. And James didnt seem to care; his mum was his priority.
An hour later James called.
“Mums arriving this evening. Get the guest room ready.”
“Okay,” Poppy replied shortly and hung up.
She straightened the room, laid fresh linen, put out a vase of flowersmechanically, without thinking.
Later that night Jamess mum arrivedMartha Walker, a stout woman with a permanent frown.
“Hello, love,” she smacked Poppy on the cheek. “What a journey! The driver was rude the whole way.”
“Good evening, Mrs. Walker,” Poppy helped her off the coat. “Come in, the rooms ready.”
“Mummy!” she cried, throwing her arms around James. “Ive missed you!”
James beamed, hugging his mum, asking about her trip. Poppy watched, feeling an inner squeeze.
At dinner Martha bragged about the renovation costs.
“Can you believe the builders want £100,000 for everything? Its a robbery!” she exclaimed. “Back in my day you could buy a flat for that!”
“Thats normal these days,” James said.
“Normal?” Martha scoffed. “In my day you could buy a whole house for that!”
Poppy ate her stew in silence while Martha went on about prices, the government, neighbours, the weather. James nodded politely.
“Why so gloomy, Poppy?” Martha asked suddenly. “You look miserable.”
“Just tired,” Poppy replied.
“Just tired?” Martha echoed. “I worked three jobs at your age and never complained!”
Poppy kept quietarguing with Martha was pointless; shed always win the debate.
After dinner, Martha retreated to her room, and Poppy started washing the dishes. James came over.
“Why are you so angry?” he asked.
“I’m not angry,” Poppy said without turning. “I’m upset.”
“Why?”
“Because you never asked for my opinion,” she finally faced him. “You just decided, and thats it. My mum will be drenched in rain, yours will stay warm here.”
“Dont blow it out of proportion,” James said, frowning. “Your mum will manage.”
“What if it were the other way round?” Poppy wiped her hands on a towel. “If I said my mum should come, and yours stay with the repairs?”
“Thats different,” James muttered.
“How is it different?”
“Because my mum is older and sicker.”
“Three years older!” Poppy snapped. “Its nothing!”
James waved his hand and walked away. Poppy stayed in the kitchen, the tea gone cold, wondering if she should just leavepack a bag and head to her mums cottage, leaving James with his beloved mother.
She caught herself, thoughthis was her home too.
The next morning Martha was up early, rummaging through cupboards.
“Morning,” she called, pulling a saucepan.
“Morning,” Poppy replied, still half asleep. “What do you need?”
“I want a sieve for my porridge,” Martha said, rummaging.
“In the right-hand cupboard, top shelf.”
Martha dug through the cabinets, pulling out plates.
“Blimey, what a mess! How do you find anything in here?” she complained.
“I manage,” Poppy said calmly.
“We need to reorganise everything,” Martha declared. “Ill sort it today.”
“No need,” Poppy said, taking her hand. “Im fine the way it is.”
“Fine?” Martha snorted. “You love living in chaos! No wonder James is always grouchy!”
Poppy clenched her fists. She took a deep breath.
“Martha, this is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and I like it this way.”
“Alright, alright, dont get your knickers in a twist,” Martha waved it off. “Im only trying to help.”
Poppy slipped into the bathroom, stared at her reflectiondark circles, a tired face, the weight of everything pressing down.
James left for work, and Poppy stayed home with Martha. All morning Martha wandered around, commenting on curtains, the sofa, the wallpaper, the carpet. Poppy listened in silence, remembering how her own mother, when she visited, was always polite and never meddled.
By lunch, Martha announced shed make her famous beef stewJames loved it. She commandeered the whole kitchen, pots and pans everywhere. Poppy tried to help.
“Want me to chop something?” she offered.
“No, Ive got it,” Martha snapped. “Youll never cut it right!”
Poppy stepped onto the balcony, called her mum.
“Hi, love, how are you?” her mum answered cheerily. “Ive got the buckets set, the tarp up. The rains stopped for now.”
“Mum,” Poppy felt a lump rise, “could you maybe come up? We could sort a place.”
“Dont, love. I can manage here. You sound tired, but Ill be fine,” her mum said.
Poppy hung up, tears spilling. Her mum would be stuck under a leaky roof, while Martha settled into the warm flat. Was that fair?
That evening James came home, and Martha greeted him with a loud, “James, Ive made your favourite stew!”
James dove in, praising it. “This is brilliant!”
Poppy ate in silence, feeling her own stew was now invisible. She snapped.
“Is my cooking not good enough?” she asked.
James, confused, laughed. “Its not that. Mums stew is just special. I grew up on it.”
“Right,” Poppy said, pushing her plate away. “Im fed.”
She went to her bedroom, stared at the ceiling, thinking, “Live, work, clean, and still no appreciation. Mums stew wins. Mum wins.”
A week later Martha had fully claimed the flatrearranged the kitchen, put her towels in the bathroom, taken a shelf in the fridge. She started berating Poppy over every tiny thing.
“Why is James shirt wrinkled? Cant you iron?” she asked.
“Why is there hair on the bathroom floor? When did you last clean?” she continued.
Poppy swallowed her protests, gritted her teeth, endured.
Then her mum called, voice hoarse.
“Darling, Ive got a fever. I think the cold got me.”
“What’s your temperature?” Poppy asked, panic rising.
“Thirtyeight, love. Nothing serious.”
Poppy hung up, went to James, who was glued to his computer.
“James, my mums ill. She needs me at the cottage.”
“Where? Shes already here,” James replied, not looking up. “We already have a mum.”
“Then your mum should move out!” Poppy exploded. “My mums sick!”
“My mum isnt moving,” James said coldly. “Her renovation isnt finished.”
“So my mum can be sick at the cottage, but yours can stay?” Poppys anger boiled over. “Do you hear yourself?”
“I do,” James said, finally looking up. “Your mums exaggerating, as usual. Thirtyeight isnt a temperature.”
“Shes sixtytwo!” Poppy shouted. “She has blood pressure, a weak heart! She cant be out in the cold!”
“Dont shout at me,” James stood. “I said no. End of story.”
Poppy stared at him and realised she barely knew the man shed lived with fifteen years. He was a stranger.
“Fine,” she whispered. “Ill go to my mums cottage and stay until she gets better.”
“Go,” James said, indifferent. “Just leave dinner for us.”
She packed a bag, prepared three days worth of food, wrote a list of where everything was in the kitchen. Martha watched, intrigued.
“Leaving for long?” she asked.
“Not sure,” Poppy replied. “My mums ill.”
“Wholl look after James?” Martha demanded.
“You,” Poppy said, pointing. “Your mum.”
She left for the cottage. Her mum was lying in bed, feverish, coughing, complaining of weakness. Poppy lit the fire, made broth, served honey tea.
“Why are you here?” her mum asked weakly. “James is alone.”
“Hes not alone, mum,” Poppy replied, pulling the blanket up. “You need me.”
Three days passed. Poppy tended to her mum, cooked, cleaned, gave medicine. James called once, asking when shed be back, then never again.
When her mum recovered, Poppy returned home to a disasterpiles of dirty dishes, pots in the sink, Martha lounging on the sofa, watching telly.
“Oh, youre back,” Martha grumbled. “We were starving.”
“Wheres James?” Poppy asked.
“At work, of course. Im here by myself, no one to cook or clean.”
Poppy slipped into the kitchen, started washing. Anger churnedwhile she was caring for her ill mum, these two had just been waiting for her to return.
That night James walked in.
“Finally! My mum was getting miserable without you.”
“Hello to you too,” Poppy said coldly. “My mums fine, thanks for asking.”
“Good,” James said, taking off his shoes. “Whats for dinner?”
Poppy stared at him for a long moment.
“Nothing. I didnt cook.”
“What do you mean I didnt cook? Youve been home all day!”
“Ive been home for half an hour,” Poppy snapped, standing. “I came back, fixed the flat after you two. If you want to eat, cook yourself.”
James was speechless. “Poppy, whats happening?”
“Im tired,” she said simply. “Tired of being the housekeeper. Either you cook or let my mum do it. Shes the one who matters more than you.”
She retreated to the bedroom and shut the door. James knocked, demanding answers, but Poppy stayed silent.
Next morning she dressed and announced, “Im moving back to my mums place, for good. Ill stay there until I decide what to do next.”
“Youve gone mad!” James shouted, eyes wide. “Why this drama?”
“Because you chose your mum over me,” Poppy said calmly. “Your mum gets comfort, my mum gets the rain. Im done being invisible.”
“Thats nonsense!”
“Its not nonsense,” she said, grabbing her bag. “Im done.”
Martha burst out of her room.
“Poppy, where are you off to?”
“Nothings happening,” Poppy replied, pulling on her coat. “I just realized Im not valued here, so Im leaving.”
She left the flat, feeling a strange relief as the lift doors closed. For the first time in ages, she did exactly what she wanted.
Her mum met her at the cottage, surprised.
“Love, whats happened?”
Poppy told her everything. Her mum listened, shook her head, sighed.
“Maybe Im being harsh,” her mum said gently. “Its your husband, after all.”
“Mom,” Poppy took her hands, “Ive spent fifteen years living for himcooking, cleaning, enduring his moods. When I had to choose between your health and his mums comfort, he chose his mum. Im not important to him, nor to his mum. Only his own mum matters.”
Her mum sighed again. “You might be right. Stay here, rest. Sort your feelings.”
A week later James called every day, begging her to come back. She let the calls go to voicemail. He eventually showed up at the cottage.
“Poppy, stop this nonsense!” he shouted at the gate. “Come back home!”
She stepped out.
“James, I wont return until you understand one simple thing,” she said.
“Whats that?”
“Families dont have important and less important members. No mother is above another. Im not a servant. Im a partner with my own feelings and dignity.”
James was silent, then whispered, “Are you really not coming back?”
“No, not until you apologiseto me and to my mum. And until your mum moves out of our flat.”
“But her renovation isnt finished!”
“She can rent somewhere else. Its her problem now.”
James left, and Poppy watched his car disappear, feeling oddly calm. She finally felt free to speak her truth and set boundaries. If he didnt accept them, so be it.
A few days later, back at the cottage, James returned, looking exhausted and a bit lost.
“Poppy, can we talk?” he asked.
She sat with him on the garden bench.
“Ive taken mum home,” he began. “Shes rented a place while the work continues.”
“Ive been listening,” Poppy nodded.
“Ive thought a lot,” James said, eyes on the ground. “You were right. I was selfish, putting my mum above you and your mum. Ive been a terrible egoist.”
“Go on,” Poppy urged.
“My mum told me yesterday shed ruined my life. She said youre a wonderful wife and I dont value you. She warned me Id be a fool if I lost you.”
Poppy blinked. “Your mum said that?”
“Yes,” James nodded. “She realised the flat turned into a pigsty without you, the food was awful, I was angry all the time. She said I should appreciate you before its too late.”
Poppy was taken abackher motherinlaw actually on her side.
“Im sorry,” James took her hand. “For everything. For neglecting you, for hurting your mum. Please, come back.”
Poppy looked into his eyes, sawPoppy saw a flicker of genuine remorse and, after a long pause, whispered that she would give their marriage another chance, but only if they truly rebuilt their life as equals.
