My mother will stay with us. Let yours go up to the cottage, Mark decided, his voice flat as a pond at night.
Listen, what if we go to the theatre on Saturday? Emma said, stirring the pot on the stove. Theyre showing a new playLucy swore it was brilliant.
Mark tore his eyes away from the telly and looked at his wife.
Theatre? Im wiped out after this week, he muttered. Im too tired.
Youre always tired, Emma sighed. We havent gone anywhere together in six months.
Fine, well see, Mark growled, and sank back into the glow of the screen.
Emma pressed her lips together. See later, maybe, someday. Those wordsmaybe, later, well get around to ithad become the soundtrack of their fifteenyear marriage. She was used to the excuses, but being used to them was not the same as accepting them.
Mark, she called, turning off the burner, we really need to talk.
What about? he didnt look away from the football match flickering on.
My mother called today. The roof at her cottage is leaking after the rain, she needs it fixed. I thought maybe she could move in with us for a couple of weeks while the work is done?
Marks brow tightened.
My mother called too. Shes starting a renovation. She wanted to move in as well.
Emma sat down at the kitchen table.
So let both of them stay. Theres enough room, she suggested.
No, Mark shook his head. Two mothers in one flat is too much. Theyll end up fighting.
They wont fight, Emma protested. They get along fine.
Mark got up, padded to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, drank, then turned back to Emma.
My mother will live with us. Let yours go to the cottage, he declared, his tone final.
A cold shiver ran through Emma.
So what, then? My mother will stay in a leaky cottage, and yours will be here?
Yes, Mark shrugged. My mum is almost sixtyfive, the construction site is tough for her. Yours is younger, shell manage.
My mum is sixtytwo! Emma snapped. Whats three years?
There is a difference, Mark said stubbornly. Besides, my mum is ill and needs peace.
Emma rose from the table.
And mine? Shes healthy? Her blood pressure is erratic, her back aches!
Everyone aches, Mark waved it off. Anyway, Ive decided. My mum arrives the day after tomorrow, and yours stays at the cottage.
He turned back to the television. Emma stood in the kitchen, stunned at his unilateral decree.
Mark, we havent finished talking, she said.
Ive got nothing more to say, he flicked channels. Its settled.
It isnt settled! Emma felt anger rise like a wave. This is my flat too! I live here, I have a say!
The lease is in my name, Mark said coldly. I decide.
Emmas teeth clenched. So because the lease bore his name, he was the master, her opinion irrelevant.
Wonderful, she whispered through clenched teeth. Just wonderful.
She retreated to the bedroom, closed the door, sank onto the bed and pressed her face into her hands. Resentment and fury boiled inside, urging her to scream, to weep, to smash dishes, yet she sat in silent stillness.
That night they spoke no words. Emma set the table in silence, Mark ate in silence, then returned to the telly. When they finally lay down, each turned toward a different wall.
In the morning Mark left for work without a goodbye. Emma called her mother.
Mum, Im sorry, but you cant come up now. Mark his mum also needs a place, theres not enough room.
Its fine, love, her mother, Mrs. Clarke, replied calmly. Ill stay at the cottage, whatever happens.
But the roof is leaking! tears welled in Emmas voice.
Fine, Ill stretch a tarp, set out buckets. Ill manage, her mother said. Dont worry.
Emma hung up and burst into tears. Her mother would be stuck under a dripping roof, while her motherinlaw would settle into a warm flat. Mark didnt care; his mother was the only priority.
An hour later Mark called.
My mum will be here this evening. Prepare a guest room.
Okay, Emma replied tersely, then hung up.
She tidied the spare room, laid fresh sheets, placed a vase of flowers. She moved through the motions mechanically, without thought.
That evening Marks mother arrivedBetty Hargreaves, a stout woman with a sour expression.
Hello, dear Emma, she planted a kiss on Emmas cheek. What a trek! The driver was a rudeness all the way.
Good evening, Mrs. Hargreaves, Emma helped her off the coat. The room is ready.
Sweetheart! Betty swooped into Marks arms. Ive missed you!
Mark smiled, embracing his mother, asking about her journey. Emma watched the tableau, feeling the room constrict around her.
During dinner Betty complained about the repair costs.
Can you believe the builders want a hundred thousand pounds for everything! Its a robbery in broad daylight! I told themenough! Find someone else, will you?
Thats normal pricing these days, Mark said.
Normal? In my day that money would buy a whole house! Now they charge you three times the price for a nail! Betty scoffed.
Emma ate her soup in silence. Betty rattled on about the government, the neighbours, the weather. Mark nodded, sympathised, and took occasional sips.
Emma, why so glum? Betty asked suddenly. You look down.
Just tired, Emma answered.
Just tired? Betty repeated, mocking. You sit at home all day and youre tired? I worked three jobs at your age and never complained!
Emma kept quiet. Arguing with Betty was futile; she would always win the debate.
After dinner Betty retreated to her room, and Emma began washing dishes. Mark approached her.
Whats wrong with you, love?
Im not angry, Emma said without turning. Im hurt.
Why?
Because you never asked my opinion, she finally looked at him. You just decided, and thats it. My mother will be drenched in rain, and yours will be cosy here.
Dont exaggerate, Mark grunted. Your mum will manage.
What if it were the other way round? Emma wiped her hands on a towel. If I saidmy mum comes, yours stays in the renovation?
Thats different, Mark muttered.
How so?
My mum is older and sicker.
Three years older! Emma snapped. Its nothing!
Mark waved his hand and left. Emma stayed alone in the kitchen, sipping cooling tea, wondering if she might just pack up and go to her mothers cottage, leaving Mark with his precious mum.
She imagined herself walking out, the flat empty, the walls echoing her steps. Then she stoppedwhere would she go? This was her home too.
The next morning Betty rose early, began reorganising the kitchen. Emma woke to the clatter of pots.
Morning, Betty called, rummaging through cupboards. Emma, wheres the strainer? I want to make porridge.
In the righthand cupboard, top shelf, Emma replied.
Betty opened the cupboard, pulling out dishes.
Good heavens, what a mess! How do you find anything in here?
I do, Emma said calmly.
We need to rearrange everything, make it proper, Betty declared, already pulling items.
No need, Emma took Bettys hand. Im comfortable as it is.
Comfortable? You live in chaos and youre happy? No wonder Mark is always dissatisfied! Betty huffed.
Emma clenched her fists, feeling a surge of anger that might spill over. She inhaled deeply, exhaled, steadied herself.
This is my kitchen, Emma said. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years. I like it when things are where they belong.
Fine, fine, dont get worked up, Betty waved off. I just want whats best.
Emma left the kitchen, walked to the bathroom, and stared at her reflectiondark circles, a tired face, a line of tension across her forehead. She felt the weight of everything pressing down.
Mark left for work, and Emma stayed at home with Betty. Throughout the day Betty wandered the flat, offering unsolicited critiques.
These curtains are old, we need new ones. The sofas sagging, its time for a replacement. The wallpaper in the hallway is peelingwhy havent you glued it back? The carpet is dustywhen was the last time it was vacuumed?
Emma listened in silence, thinking of her own mother, who had always been gentle and never meddled when she visited.
By lunchtime Betty announced, Ill make my famous stew! Mark loves it!
She claimed the whole kitchenpots, pans, bowls piled on the table. Emma offered to help.
Should I chop something? she asked.
No, Ill do it myself! Betty snapped. Youll never cut it right anyway!
Emma stepped onto the balcony, dialed her mother.
Mum, how are you? she asked.
Fine, love, Mrs. Clarkes voice chirped. Ive set out buckets, stretched the tarp. The rain has stopped for now.
Mum, Emma felt a lump rise, maybe you could come up after all? Well sort something out
No, dear, I can manage. I can hear youre holding everything together without me. Mrs. Clarke laughed lightly. Dont worry, Ill be fine.
Emma hung up, tears spilling down as she imagined her mother shivering under a leaky roof while Betty lounged in a warm flat. Was it fair?
That evening Mark returned from work, greeted by Bettys exuberant shout.
Sweetheart, Ive made your favourite stew!
At dinner Mark praised the stew wildly.
Mmm, brilliant! This is the best stew Ive ever had!
Emma ate in silence. Did her own stew suddenly taste bland? She had been making it for fifteen years, and Mark never complained. Now his mothers stew was the gold standard.
What, am I a bad cook? she blurted.
No, its fine, Mark said, oblivious. Its just Mums stewshes been making it since I was a kid.
I see, Emma set down her spoon. Im fed.
She rose, went to the bedroom, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. She thought, Here I amcooking, cleaning, trying, and Im not even appreciated. Mums stew beats mine. My mother is more important. My mother, my mother, my mother.
A week passed. Betty settled in fullyrearranged the kitchen, hung her towels in the bathroom, claimed a shelf in the fridge. She rose early, slammed pots, prepared breakfast for her son, and criticised Emma at every turn.
Emma, why is Marks shirt wrinkled? Cant you use an iron?
Emma, there are hairs on the bathroom floor! When did you last clean?
Emma, youve added too much salt to the soup! How can anyone eat that?
Emma swallowed the remarks, clenched her teeth, endured.
Then her mother called, voice hoarse.
Love, Ive got a fever. Must have caught a chill. Ill rest.
Whats the temperature? Emma asked, alarmed.
Just a little38°C, Mrs. Clarke rasped. Dont worry.
Emma hung up and went to Mark, who was at his computer.
Mark, my mum is ill. Shes not doing well at the cottage; I need to bring her in.
What do you mean? he didnt look away. We already have a mum here.
Let your mum move out! Emma snapped. My mum is sick!
My mum isnt moving anywhere, Mark said coldly. Her renovation isnt finished yet.
So my mum can get sick at the cottage?! Emma felt heat rise. Do you understand what youre saying?
I understand, Mark finally looked up. Your mum is exaggerating, as usual. Thirtyeight degrees isnt even a fever.
Shes sixtytwo! Her blood pressure, her heart! She cant be out in the cold! Emma shouted.
Dont yell at me, Mark rose. I said no. End of story.
Emma stared at him and suddenly realised she didnt know this man at all. Fifteen years lived side by side, and he felt like a stranger.
Fine, she whispered. Ill go to my mums cottage and stay until she recovers.
Go, Mark said indifferently. Just leave dinner for us.
She packed a bag, prepared food for three days, wrote a list of where everything was in the kitchen. Betty watched her pack.
Leaving for long?
I dont know, Emma answered. My mum is ill, she needs me.
And who will look after Mark? Betty asked, offended.
You, Emma said, closing her suitcase. Youre his mum.
Emma left for the cottage. Her mother lay under a leaking roof, coughing, shivering. Emma lit a fire, brewed broth, offered honey tea.
Why did you come, love? Mrs. Clarke asked weakly. Mark is alone there.
He isnt alone, his mum is there, Emma corrected, pulling the blanket tighter. But you need me more.
For three days Emma tended to her mothercooking, cleaning, handing medication. Mark called once, asking when shed return, then said nothing more.
When her mother improved, Emma decided to go back. She arrived home to a scene of chaos: dishes piled high, pots unwashed, the flat a mess. Betty lounged on the sofa, eyes glued to the television.
Well, youre back, Betty grumbled. Weve been starving.
Wheres Mark? Emma asked.
At work, of course. Im left here alone, nothing to cook, nothing to clean.
Emma moved to the kitchen, began washing dishes. Anger roiled insidewhile she cared for her sick mother, these two men sat and waited for a housekeeper to return.
That night Mark came home.
Finally! My mum was miserable without you, he said.
Hello to you too, Emma replied coldly. My mum, by the way, is better now. Thanks for asking.
Good, Mark shrugged, taking off his shoes. Whats for dinner?
Emma stared at him for a long moment.
Nothing. I didnt cook.
What do you mean I didnt cook? You were home all day!
I was here half an hour, Emma snapped, standing. I came back, tidied the flat after you both. If you want food, make it yourself.
What?! Mark stammered. Emma, what are you doing?
Im exhausted, she said simply. Im tired of being a servant. Cook yourself or let my mum do itthe same mum who matters more than anyone else here.
She retreated to the bedroom and shut the door. Mark knocked, demanding explanations, but she wouldnt open.
The next morning Emma dressed and announced, Im going to stay with my mum. Permanently. Ill live there until I decide what to do next.
Youve gone mad! Mark shouted, eyes wide. Why this drama?
Because you chose your mum over me, Emma said calmly. Your mum is more important, your mum gets comfort, and my mum has to soak under a leaking roof while I serve you both.
Youre talking nonsense!
Its not nonsense, she replied, grabbing her bag. Im done. If you want to live with your mum, do it. Im leaving.
Betty burst from her room, Emma, where are you off to? Whats happening?
Nothing, Emma said, pulling on her coat. I just realised Im not valued here. I have no reason to stay.
She walked out of the flat, closed the lift doors behind her, feeling a strange lightness for the first time in years. She finally did what she wanted, not what was expected.
Her mother met her at the gate, surprised.
Love, whats happened? she asked.
Emma told her everything. Her mother listened, nodded, sighed.
Maybe Im being harsh, Mrs. Clarke said cautiously. Its your husband, after all.
No, Mum, Emma replied, taking her hand, I spent fifteen years living for himcooking, washing, tolerating his moods. When the choice came between your health and his mothers comfort, he chose his mother. Im not important to him, nor am I to his mother. Only his mother matters.
Mrs. Clarke sighed, Perhaps youre right. Stay here, rest, think things through.
A week later Mark called daily, pleading for her return. Emma ignored the calls. Eventually he drove to the cottage.
Emma, stop this foolishness! he shouted at the gate. Come back home!
Emma stepped out.
Mark, I wont come back until you understand one simple thing, she said.
What is it?
That a family has no important or unimportant people. No mother can be placed above another. A wife is not a servant. I am a person with feelings and dignity.
Mark was silent, then asked quietly, Will you really not return?
No, not until you apologiseto me and to my mum. And until your mum moves out of our home.
But her renovation isnt finished!
Let her rent a flat, or live in the unfinished place. Thats her problem, not ours.
Mark left. Emma watched his car disappear, feeling a calm she hadnt known before. She had spoken her truth, set boundaries. If he didnt accept them, then they werenShe stepped onto the path toward her mothers cottage, feeling the weight lift as the cold wind whispered that freedom had finally arrived.
