My mum will stay with us. Yours can go up to the cottage, Ian decided, patting the remote.
Hey, shall we go to the theatre on Saturday? Poppy asked, stirring the soup on the hob. Theyre showing a new play the critic Claire raved about it.
Ian snapped his eyes away from the television and glanced at his wife.
Theatre? Im not sure Im knackered after the week.
Youre always knackered, Poppy sighed. We havent been out together for months.
Fine, well see, Ian muttered, diving back into the screen.
Poppy pursed her lips. Always well see, later, maybe. Fifteen years of marriage and Ive learned to expect those excuses, even if Im not supposed to just accept them.
Ian, she called, switching off the stove, we really need to talk.
What about? he asked without turning from the football match.
My mum called. Her cottages roof is leaking after the rain, and she needs it fixed. I thought maybe she could stay with us for a couple of weeks while the workers sort it out.
Ian frowned. My mum called too. Shes starting a renovation and wanted to move in with us as well.
Poppy sat down at the table. Then let both of them stay. Weve got enough space.
No, Ian shook his head. Two mums under one roof is too much. Theyll end up fighting.
They wont fight, Poppy protested. They get on fine.
Ian got up, poured himself a glass of water, drank, then turned back to Poppy.
My mum will live here. Yours can go up to the cottage, he said firmly.
Poppy felt a chill settle in her stomach.
So what, then? My mum will endure a leaky roof in the cottage, and yours will enjoy our flat?
Exactly, Ian shrugged. My mum is almost sixtyfive, she cant be out on a construction site any more. Yours is younger, shell manage.
My mum is sixtytwo! Poppy snapped. Whats three years difference?
There is a difference, Ian insisted obstinately. Besides, my mum is ill and needs peace.
Is mine not healthy? Her blood pressure spikes, her back aches!
Everyone aches, Ian waved it off. Bottom line Ive decided. My mum arrives the day after tomorrow, and yours stays at the cottage.
He turned back to the television. Poppy stared at the kitchen, unable to believe what shed just heard. How could he decide everything without even a discussion?
Ian, we havent finished talking, she said.
Nothing more to say, he flicked through the channels. Its settled.
Nothings settled! Poppys anger rose like a wave. This is my flat too! I live here and I have a say!
The lease is in my name, Ian said coldly. I decide.
Poppys mouth formed a thin smile. Brilliant, she hissed. Very brilliant.
She slipped into the bedroom, shut the door, and collapsed onto the bed, face buried in her hands. Hurt and fury boiled inside her, making her want to scream, weep, even fling the dishes. Instead she sat in silence.
That evening they said nothing to each other. Poppy set the table in silence, Ian ate in silence and returned to the telly. When they finally went to bed, each turned to their own wall.
The next morning Ian left for work without a goodbye. Poppy phoned her mother.
Sorry, Mum, you cant come up. Ian his mum also needs a place, theres not enough room.
Never mind, love, her mother, Mrs. Hughes, replied cheerfully. Ill just stay at the cottage, whats the worst that could happen?
But the roof is leaking! Poppys voice trembled.
Will do. Ill tape a sheet on it, set out some buckets. Ill manage, her mother said. Dont worry.
Poppy hung up and burst into tears. Her mother would be stuck under a dripping roof, while Ians mum would bask in a warm flat, and Ian didnt seem to care a whit.
An hour later Ian called.
Mum will be here tonight. Prepare the guest room.
Okay, Poppy replied curtly and hung up.
She tidied the room, laid fresh linen, put a few flowers on the bedside table, all mechanically, her mind elsewhere.
That night Ians mother arrived Eleanor Whitaker, a stout woman with an indignant expression.
Hello, dear Poppy, she smacked Poppy on the cheek. What a journey! The taxi driver was a right lout.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitaker, Poppy helped her take off her coat. The room is ready.
Sweetheart! Eleanor clutched Ian in a hug. Ive missed you!
Ian smiled, hugged his mum, peppered her with questions about the trip. Poppy watched the tableau, feeling the room close in around her.
During dinner Eleanor complained about the renovation costs.
Can you believe the builders want £1,000 for the whole job? Its a daylight robbery! I told them to look elsewhere.
Dad, those are normal rates nowadays, Ian remarked.
Normal! Eleanor snorted. Back in my day you could buy a flat for that money! Now you have to pay three times as much for nothing!
Poppy ate her soup in silence while Eleanor continued her litany of grievances about prices, the government, neighbours, weather. Ian nodded, offered sympathy.
Why so glum, Poppy? Eleanor asked suddenly. You look downcast.
Just tired, Poppy replied.
Tired? Eleanor mimicked. You sit at home all day and youre tired? When I was your age I worked three jobs and never complained!
Poppy kept quiet. Arguing with Eleanor was pointless; she would always win the debate.
After dinner Eleanor retreated to her room, and Poppy began washing the dishes. Ian came over.
Whats wrong with you? he asked.
Im not angry, Poppy said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never even asked my opinion, she finally faced him. You just decided, and thats that. My mum will be drenched in rain, yours will be cosy here.
Dont exaggerate, Ian grimaced. Your mum will manage.
What if it were the other way round? Poppy wiped her hands on a towel. What if I said my mum should come, and yours stay with the repair?
Thats different, Ian muttered.
How so?
My mum is older and sicker!
Three years older! Poppy exploded. Three years! Thats not a difference!
Ian waved his hand and walked away. Poppy stayed in the kitchen, sipping her nowcold tea, wondering if she should just up and leave for her mothers cottage, leaving Ian with his precious mum.
She shook her head. Where would she go? This was her home too.
The next morning Eleanor rose early and began bossing around the kitchen. Poppy woke to the clatter of pots.
Morning, Eleanor said, rummaging through the cupboards. Poppy, wheres the sieve? I want to make porridge.
In the righthand cupboard, top shelf, Poppy answered.
Eleanor poked around, pulling out dishes.
Good heavens, what a mess! How do you find anything in here?
I manage, Poppy replied evenly.
We need to rearrange everything, put it in order, Eleanor declared, already in fullsteam.
No need, Poppy said, taking Eleanors hand. Im fine the way it is.
Fine? You love living in chaos! No wonder Ians always grouchy! Eleanor sniffed.
Poppy clenched her fists. She could say something shed later regret, but instead she took a deep breath.
This is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and I like things where they belong.
Alright, alright, dont get your knickers in a twist, Eleanor waved it off. Im just trying to help.
Poppy retreated to the bathroom, stared at her reflection tired eyes, dark circles, a strained expression. She felt utterly drained.
Ian left for work, and Poppy was left with Eleanor. The latter spent the whole morning wandering the flat, commenting on curtains, the sagging sofa, peeling wallpaper, dusty carpets.
When Eleanor finally announced shed make her signature borscht, the kitchen turned into a battlefield of pots and pans.
Maybe I can chop something? Poppy offered.
No, Ill do it myself, Eleanor snapped. You never cut it right anyway!
Poppy moved to the balcony, dialled her mother.
Hello, love? Mrs. Hughes answered cheerily. Ive got the buckets out, the sheet on the roof, the rain has stopped for now.
Mum, could you maybe come up? Poppys voice cracked. Well figure something out
No need, dear. I can manage. I hear youre handling it fine.
Poppy hung up, tears spilling over. Her mum would be stuck under a leaky roof, while Eleanor lounged in a warm flat, and Ian still cared only for his own mum.
That evening Ian arrived home, and Eleanor greeted him with a shout.
Sweetheart! I made your favourite borscht!
Ian raved over the soup.
Mmm, brilliant! I havent had this in ages!
Poppy ate in silence, wondering why her own stew never seemed good enough.
Is my cooking bad? she finally blurted.
No, its fine, Ian replied, not catching the sarcasm. Just that Mums borscht is a childhood classic.
Poppy set her spoon down. Fine, Im done.
She retreated to the bedroom, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. So thats it cook, clean, endure, and never be appreciated. Mums borscht rules, Mums needs come first.
A week later Eleanor had fully settled in, rearranging the kitchen to her taste, hanging her towels in the bathroom, claiming the top shelf of the fridge. She buzzed around the flat, critiquing everything.
Why is Ians shirt wrinkled? Cant you iron?
Why is there hair in the bathroom?
Why is the soup too salty?
Poppy swallowed her frustration, endured, clenched her teeth.
Then the phone rang her mother sounded feverish.
Mum, whats your temperature? Poppy asked, alarmed.
Just a low thirtyeight, Mrs. Hughes rasped. Ill lie down.
Poppy hung up and went to Ian, who was glued to his computer.
Ian, my mums ill. She cant stay at the cottage in this weather.
What do you want me to do? he asked without looking up. We already have a mum here.
Tell your mum to move out! Poppy snapped. My mum needs help!
My mum isnt moving anywhere, Ian said coldly. She still has the renovation.
My mum cant be sick out there! Poppys anger boiled over. Do you even hear yourself?
I understand, Ian finally looked up. Your mums temperature isnt even a temperature.
Shes sixtytwo! Her blood pressure, her heart!
Dont shout at me, Ian stood, I said no. End of story.
Poppy stared at him and realised she didnt know the man shed lived with fifteen years. He felt like a stranger.
Fine, she said softly. Ill go to my mums cottage until she gets better.
Go, Ian shrugged. Just leave dinner for us.
She packed a bag, prepared three days worth of food, made a list of kitchen supplies. Eleanor watched, eyebrows raised.
Leaving for long?
Not sure. My mums ill.
Wholl look after Ian? Eleanor asked, offended.
You, Poppy said, youre his mum.
She left for the cottage. Her mother was coughing, shivering, the roof still dripped. Poppy lit the wood stove, boiled broth, offered honey tea.
Why are you here, love? Mrs. Hughes asked weakly. Ians alone, isnt he?
No, hes with his mum, Poppy corrected. You need me more.
Three days passed. Ian called once, asking when shed be back, then nothing more.
When her mother recovered, Poppy returned home to a disaster zone: piles of dirty dishes, a kitchen turned into a pigsty, Eleanor lounging on the sofa watching telly.
Ah, youre back, Eleanor grumbled. We were starving.
Wheres Ian? Poppy asked.
At work, of course. Im here alone, no one to cook or clean.
Poppy went to the sink, the anger inside simmering. While she washed, she thought: while she was caring for her sick mum, these two men sat around waiting for a maid.
That evening Ian walked in.
Finally! My mum was a mess without you.
Hello to you too, Poppy said coldly. My mum is better now, thanks for asking.
Whats for dinner? Ian asked.
I havent cooked, Poppy replied. I was here all afternoon tidying after you both.
What? I cant cook! Ian stammered. Poppy, whats happening?
Im tired, she said simply. Tired of being the housekeeper. Cook yourself or ask your mum.
Ian stared, baffled.
Enough, he said, grabbing her hand. Im sorry. I was a bloody idiot. I put my mum above you and yours. I see it now.
Poppy looked at his earnest eyes.
Ill come back, she said slowly. But with conditions.
What conditions? Ian asked.
First, never again put your mum before me. Im your wife, I should be priority.
Agreed, he nodded.
Second, treat my mum with the same respect you give yours. If yours needs help, mine does too.
Agreed.
Third, Im not a servant. Im your partner. All decisions are ours together.
Agreed.
Ian squeezed her hand. I get it. Im truly sorry.
They walked in together. Ian knocked on the kitchen door where Mrs. Hughes sat with a tea.
Mum, Im sorry. I shouldnt have left you at the cottage when you were ill. I shouldnt have favoured my mum.
Mrs. Hughes looked at him, then at Poppy, and said, Alright, Ill forgive you. Just dont bother my daughter again, or Ill give you a proper tellingoff.
Ian smiled. I promise.
The flat was spotless Ian had tidied up before Poppys return. She looked around, feeling the house was finally hers again, not because she was obliged, but because she chose to stay on her own terms.
That night they sat with tea, Ian recounting his miserable week without her.
Cooking was a disaster. My mums back, but her back hurts, so we survived on ready meals.
You survived without me? Poppy teased.
Without you, Ian admitted, eyes meeting hers. I missed you, your voice, your laugh. I need you, Poppy.
She felt the ice inside melt a little. Perhaps they could start anew, this time as equals.
Weeks later Ian truly changed he helped with dishes, asked about her mothers health, thanked her for meals. Eleanor softened too, apologising for her earlier rudeness.
Poppy, Im sorry for being a terror, she said one afternoon. I didnt realise I was hurting you.
Its all right, Poppy replied, smiling. Weve all learned.
Soon after, Ian suggested, Shall we invite your mum to stay with us? Ill drive her back to the cottage when she wants.
Poppy looked at him gratefully. At last the family felt balanced, everyone valued, everyone loved.
The whole saga taught her to stand up for herself, not tolerate injustice, and to walk away when needed. Because sometimes the only way to earn respect is to set your own boundaries.
