My mum can stay with us. Yours should go up to the cottage, Ian decided, his voice flat as the TV flickered.
Listen, why dont we go to the theatre on Saturday? Emily asked, stirring the soup on the stove. Theyre showing a new productionLaura raved about it.
Ian tore his eyes away from the screen and looked at his wife.
Theatre? Im not sure Im in the mood. Ive been exhausted all week.
Youre always exhausted, Emily sighed. We havent gone out together in six months.
Fine, well see, Ian muttered, sinking back into the glow of the match.
Emily pursed her lips. See, later, maybe. Shed heard those excuses for fifteen years of marriage, but hearing them didnt mean she had to accept them.
Ian, she called, turning off the burner, we really need to talk.
What about? he asked without blinking, the football match still blaring.
My mum called today. Her roof leaks after the rain, and the cottage needs repairs. I was thinking she could stay with us for a couple of weeks while the workers finish.
Ians brow furrowed.
My mum called too. Shes about to start a renovation. She wanted to move in with us as well.
Emily sat down at the table.
So let both of them stay. Theres enough room.
No, Ian shook his head. Two mothers under one roof is too much. Theyll end up fighting.
They wont fight, Emily protested. They get along fine.
Ian rose, padded into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, drank, then turned back to Emily.
My mum will live with us. Yours should head to the cottage, he said, his tone final.
Emily felt a chill settle deep inside.
So what, my mum stays in a leaking cottage while yours lives here?
Exactly, Ian shrugged. My mum is almost sixtyfive; its hard for her to be out on a building site. Your mums younger, shell manage.
My mum is sixtytwo! Emily snapped. What difference does three years make?
There is a difference, Ian replied stubbornly. Besides, my mum is ill and needs peace.
My mum is healthy! Her blood pressure spikes, she has a bad back!
Everyone has aches, Ian waved it off. Bottom line, Ive decided. My mum arrives the day after tomorrow, and your mum stays at the cottage.
He turned back to the TV. Emily stood frozen, unable to believe what shed just heard. Hed made a decision without her, without discussion.
Igor I mean, Ian we havent finished, she said, stepping into the living room.
Ive got nothing more to say, he replied, flipping channels. Its settled.
It isnt! This is my flat too! I live here and I have a say!
The lease is in my name, Ian said coldly. I decide.
Emilys heart hardened. If the flat was his, then he was the boss, and her opinion didnt matter.
Wonderful, she whispered through clenched teeth. Just wonderful.
She retreated to the bedroom, shut the door, collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. Fury and hurt surged, making her want to scream, to weep, to smash dishes. She sat in the silence, the tears burning her cheeks.
That evening they ate in silence. Emily set the table wordlessly; Ian ate without a word, then returned to the television. When they finally lay down, each turned to his own wall.
The next morning Ian left for work without a goodbye. Emily dialed her mother.
Mum, Im sorry, but you cant come up to us. Ian his mum also needs a place, theres not enough room.
Its all right, love, her mother, Margaret, replied gently. Ill stay at the cottage, see what I can do.
But the roof is leaking! Emilys voice cracked with tears.
Ill just slap some tarpaulin on it, set out buckets. Ill manage. Dont worry.
Emily hung up and sobbed. Her mother would be stranded under a leaking roof, while Ians mother would enjoy a warm flat. Ian didnt care; his mother was his priority.
An hour later Ian called.
My mums arriving this evening. Prepare the guest room.
Okay, Emily said curtly, hanging up.
She straightened the room, laid fresh linens, placed a vase of flowers on the bedside table, moving mechanically, her mind numb.
That night Ians mother arrivedAgnes Whitfield, a stout woman with a sour expression.
Hello, dear, she kissed Emily on the cheek. Blimey, the journey was dreadful! The driver was a proper lout.
Good evening, Mrs Whitfield, Emily replied, helping her off her coat. Please, come in, the room is ready.
My boy! Agnes lunged into Ians arms. Ive missed you so much!
Ian smiled, hugging his mother, peppering her with questions about the trip. Emily watched, feeling the room close in around her.
At dinner Agnes launched into a tirade about the renovation costs.
Can you imagine? The builders want a hundred grand for the whole job! Its daylight robbery! I told themhave you lost your minds? Find someone else, will ya?
Mum, those are the going rates, Ian remarked.
Going rates! In my day you could buy a whole house for that! she scoffed. Now you pay three times the price for a nail!
Emily ate her soup in silence, barely hearing the complaints about the government, the neighbours, the weather. Ian nodded, feigning sympathy.
Why so gloomy, Emily? Agnes asked suddenly. You look downcast.
Im just tired, Emily answered.
Tired? You sit at home all day and youre tired? In my time I juggled three jobs and never complained!
Emily stayed quiet; arguing with Agnes was futileshe would always have the last word.
After dinner Agnes retreated to her room; Emily washed the dishes. Ian approached.
Whats wrong with you?
Im not angry, Emily said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never asked my opinion, she finally met his gaze. You just decidedmy mum will be out in the rain, yours will be cosy here.
Dont exaggerate, Ian grimaced. Your mum will manage.
What if it were the other way round? Emily wiped her hands on a towel. If I saidmy mum comes, and yours stays on the renovation?
Thats different, Ian muttered.
How so?
My mum is older and sicker.
Only three years older! Emily snapped. Three years is nothing!
Ian waved his hand and walked away. Emily stayed at the kitchen sink, the thought of leaving flickering through her mindjust up to her mothers cottage, leaving Ian with his precious mum. Then she stopped herself. This was her home too.
Morning found Agnes rummaging through cupboards.
Good morning, she said, pulling a pot from the shelf.
Morning, Emily replied, halfasleep. Wheres the strainer? I want to make porridge.
Its on the top shelf of the right cupboard, Agnes instructed.
Agnes began pulling out dishes, muttering about the mess.
Good heavens, what a disaster! How do you find anything in here?
I find it, Emily replied evenly.
It needs a complete rearrangement, Agnes declared, already planning a makeover.
No need, Emily said, taking her hand. Im comfortable as it is.
Comfortable? Living in chaos, thats your idea of comfort! No wonder Ian is always grouchy! Agnes snapped.
Emily clenched her fists, feeling a surge of anger. She took a deep breath.
This is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and I like it the way it is, she said calmly.
Fine, fine, dont get your knickers in a twist, Agnes waved it off. I just want whats best.
Emily left the kitchen, went into the bathroom, and stared at her reflectiondark circles under her eyes, a tight jaw. She was exhausted, worn thin by the endless battle.
Ian left for work, leaving Emily alone with Agnes. The whole morning Agnes toured the flat, commenting on everything: Those curtains are dated, the sofas sagging, the wallpapers peeling, the carpets dustywhen was it last vacuumed?
Emily listened in silence, thinking of how her own mother had always been considerate when she visited, never meddling or criticizing.
By lunch Agnes announced, Ill make my famous beef stew! Ian loves it!
She monopolised the kitchenpots, pans, bowls everywhere. Emily tried to help.
Should I chop something? she offered.
No need, Ill do it myself! Agnes snapped. You never slice it right anyway!
Emily slipped onto the balcony, phone in hand, and called her mother.
Hi, Mum, how are you? she asked.
Im fine, dear, Margaret replied brightly. Ive got the buckets out, the tarp on the roof. The rain seems to have stopped.
Mum, could you maybe come up here? Well sort something out
No dear, I can manage. I hear your voice, I know its stressful, but Ill be alright.
Emily hung up, tears spilling over. Her mother would be shivering under a leaky roof, while Agnes lounged in the warm flat. Was this fair?
That evening Ian arrived home, greeted by Agness jubilant shout.
Sweetheart! Ive made your favourite stew!
Ian raved over the stew, Delicious! This is the best!
Emily ate in silence. Was her own stew not good enough? Shed cooked the same dish for years, and Ian never complainednow the mothers stew was the gold standard.
Is my cooking not good enough? she finally blurted.
No, its fine, Ian said, oblivious. Just that Mums stew is a childhood memory.
She set her spoon down. Im done.
She rose, went to the bedroom, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. So this is itcook, clean, endure, and never be valued. Mums stew wins. Mum wins. My voice is irrelevant.
A week later Agnes settled in completelyrearranged the kitchen, hung her towels in the bathroom, claimed the top shelf of the fridge. She rose early, clanged pots, prepared breakfast for her son, and criticised Emily at every turn.
Emily, why is Ians shirt creased? Cant you iron? she snapped.
Emily, theres hair in the bath! When was the last time you cleaned? she demanded.
Emily, youve salted the soup too heavily! How can you eat that? she nagged.
Emily endured, clenching her teeth.
Then her mother called, voice hoarse.
Love, my temperatures gone up, I think Ive caught a chill.
What temperature? Emily asked, alarmed.
Just a low thirtyeight, Margaret croaked. Ill rest.
Emily hung up, went to Ian, who was glued to his laptop.
Mums ill. Shes struggling at the cottage; I need to bring her in.
What? We already have a mum here, Ian said without looking up.
Let your mum move out! Emily snapped. My mum is sick!
My mum isnt moving anywhere, Ian said coldly. Her renovation isnt finished.
My mum cant be out in the cold! Emilys voice rose, a scream building inside. Do you hear yourself?
I understand, Ian finally looked up. Your mum is exaggerating as usual. Thirtyeight isnt a fever.
Shes sixtytwo! Her blood pressure, her heart! She cant be out in the cold!
Dont shout at me, Ian rose. I said no. End of story.
Emily stared at him, the realization dawningshe didnt know this man at all. Fifteen years together, yet he felt like a stranger.
Fine, she whispered. Ill go to Mums cottage and stay until she gets better.
Go, Ian said indifferently. 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. Agnes watched her pack.
Leaving for long? she asked.
My mums ill, Emily replied. I have to be with her.
Wholl look after Ian? Agnes asked, alarmed.
You, Emily said, pointing at Agnes. Youre his mum.
She left for the cottage. Margaret lay in bed, feverish, coughing, complaining of weakness. Emily lit the old woodburner, brewed broth, served honey tea.
Why did you come, love? Margaret asked weakly. Ians alone here.
Not alone. With Mum, Emily replied, pulling the blanket tighter. You need me.
Three days passed. Emily tended to her mum, cooked, cleaned, monitored medication. Ian called once, asking when shed return, then said nothing more.
When Margarets health improved, Emily returned home to a disastera mountain of dirty dishes, pots piled in the sink, the flat a mess. Agnes lounged on the sofa, eyes glued to the telly.
Oh, youre back, she muttered. We were starving.
Wheres Ian? Emily asked.
At work, of course. Im here alone, nothing to do, no one to cook for.
Emily moved to the kitchen, began washing dishes, anger simmering. Shed been caring for her mother while theyd simply waited for a housekeeper to return.
That night Ian came home.
Finally! Moms been a wreck without you, he said.
Hello to you too, Emily replied coldly. My mum is fine now, thanks for asking.
Good, Ian said, taking off his shoes. Whats for dinner?
Emily stared at him, her voice low.
Nothing. I didnt cook.
What do you mean I didnt cook? You were home all day!
I was home for half an hour, then I came back, cleaned up after you two. If you want food, make it yourself.
What?! Ian staggered. Emily, what are you doing?
Im tired, she said simply. Tired of being your servant. Cook yourself or ask my mumshes the one who matters.
She walked to the bedroom, shut the door, and refused to open it as Ian pounded, demanding explanations.
The next morning she dressed, announced:
Im leaving to stay with my mum. For good. Ill live with her until I decide what to do next.
Youre insane! Ian shouted, eyes wild. Why this drama?
Because you chose your mum over me, Emily answered calmly. Your mum gets priority, my mum gets left out in the rain, and Im left to serve both.
Youre talking nonsense!
Its not nonsense, she said, grabbing her bag. Im done. If you want to live with your mum, go ahead. Im out.
Agnes burst from her room.
Emily, where are you going? Whats happened?
Nothing, Emily said, pulling on her coat. I just realised Im not valued here, so Im leaving.
She stepped out of the flat, closed the door behind her, and felt a strange relief in the lifther first time choosing herself over what was expected.
Her mother met her at the gate, eyes wide.
Love! Whats happened?
Emily told her everything. Margaret listened, shaking her head, sighing.
Maybe Im being harsh, Margaret said gently. Hes your husband, after all.
Mum, Emily said, gripping her hands, Ive spent fifteen years living for himcooking, washing, tolerating his moods. When I had to choose between your health and his mums comfort, he chose his mum. Im not important to him, and youre not either. Only his mum matters.
Margaret sighed.
Perhaps youre right. Stay here, rest, think things through.
A week later Ian called daily, begging her to return. She ignored the phone. Eventually he drove to the cottage.
Emily, stop this nonsense! he shouted at the gate. Come home!
Emily stepped out.
I wont return until you understand something simple, she said.
What?
That a family isnt about ranking mothers as important or not. A wife isnt a maid. Im a person with feelings and dignity.
Ian was silent, then whispered, Will you really not come back?
No, not until you apologiseto me and to my mum. And until your mum moves out of our house.
My mum still has the renovation, he protested.
Then let her rent a flat, Emily replied. Or live amidst the work. Its her problem, not ours.
Ian left, car disappearing down the lane. Emily watched it go, feeling a calm she hadnt felt in years. Whether he returned or not, she had finally spoken her truth and set boundaries.
Days passed. Emily helped her mum around the cottage, walked, read, found peace. No one demanded, no one criticised, no one ruled.
One bright morning a car pulled up to the gate. Ian stepped out, looking weary and lost.
Emily, can we talk? he asked.
She rose, and they sat on the bench by the garden.
Ive taken Mum home, he beganEmily stared at him, sensed his genuine remorse, and said she would consider returningonly if they rebuilt their life together as equals.
