My mother will stay with us. Your mother should go up to the cottage, I decided.
Hey, how about we go to the theatre on Saturday? Emma asked, stirring the soup on the stove. Theres a new production Liza said its brilliant.
I pulled myself away from the telly and glanced at Emma.
Theatre? Im not sure Im knackered after the week, I said.
You always say youre tired, Emma sighed. We havent gone out together in six months.
Fine, well see, I muttered, turning back to the screen.
Emma pursed her lips. It was always the same: well see, later, maybe. Fifteen years of marriage had taught me to expect the excuses, but getting used to them didnt mean I accepted them.
Ian, she called, turning off the stove, we really need to talk.
What about? I didnt look away from the football match.
About my mum. She called today. Her cottage roof is leaking after the rain, so she needs it fixed. I was thinking she could stay with us for a couple of weeks while the trades finish the work?
I frowned.
My mum rang as well. Shes about to start a renovation and wanted to move in with us too.
Emma sat down at the table.
So let both of them stay. Theres enough room.
No, I shook my head. Two mums under one roof is a stretch. Theyll end up stepping on each others toes.
They wont, Emma protested. They get along fine.
I got up, went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of water, drank, then turned back to Emma.
My mum will live here. Your mum should go up to the cottage, I said firmly.
Emma felt a chill inside her.
So what? My mum will live in a leaky cottage, and yours will stay here?
Yes, I 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! Emma snapped. What difference does three years make?
There is a difference, I insisted. Besides, my mum is ill and needs peace.
Is my mum not healthy? Her blood pressure spikes, her back aches! she retorted.
Everyone aches, I waved it off. Bottom line Ive decided. My mum arrives the day after tomorrow; your mum stays at the cottage.
I turned back to the telly. Emma stood in the kitchen, stunned at how I could just decide without consulting her.
Ian, we havent finished speaking, she said.
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! she protested, voice rising.
The lease is in my name, I said coldly. I decide.
She fell silent, realizing that because the tenancy was in my name, I was the head. Her opinion seemed irrelevant.
Wonderful, she muttered, teeth clenched. Very wonderful.
She retreated to the bedroom, slammed the door, collapsed onto the bed and buried her face in her hands. Anger and hurt swirled inside her; she wanted to shout, cry, smash dishes, but she just sat there, quiet.
That evening we ate in silence. Emma set the table without a word, I ate without a word and went back to the TV. When we finally turned in, we each faced a different wall.
The next morning I left for work without a goodbye. Emma called her mother.
Mum, Im sorry, but you cant come up to us. Ian his mum also needs a place, there isnt enough room.
Its all right, dear, her mum, Margaret, replied calmly. Ill stay at the cottage, see what I can do.
But the roof is leaking! tears rose in Emmas voice.
Do I care? Ill stretch a tarp, put out buckets. Ill manage. Dont worry, Margaret said.
Emma hung up and broke down. Her mum would be shivering under a leaky roof, while my mother settled in a warm flat. And I didnt mind a bit; my mother was the priority.
An hour later I called back.
My mum will be here this evening. Prepare the spare room, I said.
Fine, Emma answered curtly and hung up.
She tidied the spare room, laid fresh linens, put out a vase of flowers. She did it mechanically, without thinking.
That evening my motherinlaw, Margaret Smith, arrived a plump woman with a sour expression.
Hello, Emma dear, she planted a kiss on my wifes cheek. Oh, Im exhausted from the journey! The taxi driver was a proper lout.
Good evening, Margaret, Emma said, helping her off the coat. Come in, the room is ready.
Sonny! Margaret threw her arms around me. Ive missed you so much!
I smiled, hugged my mother, asked about her trip. Emma watched the scene and felt a tightening in her chest.
During dinner Margaret complained about the repairs.
Can you imagine? The builders want a hundred thousand pounds for everything! Its a daylight robbery! I told them Youve got to be kidding!
Mum, those are normal rates nowadays, I observed.
Normal! In my day you could buy a house for that money! Now you have to bleed three skins for every little thing! she snorted.
Emma ate her borscht in silence while Margaret continued to whinge about the government, prices, neighbours, the weather. I nodded, sympathised.
Emma, why so glum? Margaret asked suddenly. You look downhearted.
Im just tired, Emma replied.
Too tired, sitting at home all day, eh? Margaret mocked. When I was your age I juggled three jobs and never complained!
Emma said nothing. Arguing with Margaret was pointless she would always win the debate.
After dinner Margaret retired to her room, and Emma washed the dishes. I approached her.
Whats wrong, love?
Im not angry, Emma said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never asked for my opinion, she finally looked at me. You just decided, and thats that. My mum will be soaking in rain, yours will be cosy here.
Dont exaggerate, I grunted. Your mum will manage.
What if we flipped it? What if I said my mum comes and yours stays at the renovation site?
Thats different, I muttered.
How is it different?
Because my mum is older and more infirm, I replied stubbornly.
Just three years! Emma snapped. Three years is nothing!
I waved my hand and walked away. Emma stayed alone in the kitchen, wondering if she should just pack up and go to her mums cottage, leaving me with my precious mum.
She tried to convince herself not to run off. This was her home too.
The next morning Margaret rose early and started organising the kitchen. Emma woke to the clatter of pots.
Morning, Margaret called, rummaging through the cabinets. Emma, wheres the sieve? I want to make porridge.
In the righthand cupboard, top shelf, Emma answered.
Margaret fished out a jumble of dishes.
Blimey, what a mess! How do you find anything in here? she exclaimed.
I do, Emma replied coolly.
We should rearrange everything, get it proper, Margaret said, already planning.
No need, I intervened. Im fine with it as it is.
Fine! You love living in chaos! No wonder Ian is always grouchy! Margaret snapped.
Emma clenched her fists, took a breath, and said calmly, Margaret, this is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years and I like things where they belong.
Alright, alright, no need to get testy, Margaret waved away. I just want whats best.
Emma left the kitchen, went to the bathroom, and stared at her reflection tired eyes, dark circles, a strained face. She felt utterly exhausted.
Ian left for work, and Emma stayed at home with Margaret. All morning Margaret toured the flat, commenting on everything.
The curtains are dated, we need new ones. The sofa is sagging, should be replaced. The wallpaper in the hallway is peeling why not restick it? The carpet is dusty when was it last vacuumed?
Emma listened in silence, thinking how her own mum never meddled, never criticized, always polite when she visited.
By lunch Margaret decided to make her famed borscht.
Ill cook my special borscht! Ian loves it! she declared, taking over the whole kitchen pots, pans, bowls piled on the table. Emma offered to help.
Should I chop something? she asked.
No, Ive got it, Margaret replied dismissively. Youll never cut it right!
Emma stepped onto the balcony, dialled her mother.
Mum, how are you? she asked.
Fine, dear, Margaret replied cheerfully. Ive set out buckets, stretched a tarp. The rain seems to have stopped, at least its not dripping now.
Mum, Emma heard the lump in her throat, maybe you could still come up? Well sort the sleeping arrangements
No, love, I can manage. I hear your voice, I know its busy without me. Dont worry, Ill be fine.
Emma hung up, tears streaming. Her mum would be shivering under a leaky cottage roof, while Margaret settled into a warm flat. Was it fair?
That evening Ian came home, and Margaret greeted him with a shout.
Sonny! Ive made your favourite borscht!
At dinner Ian praised the soup.
Mmm, brilliant! This is the best borscht Ive ever had!
Emma ate in silence. Was her own borscht not good enough? Shed been making it for fifteen years, and Ian always ate it without complaint. Now Margarets version stole the spotlight.
Is my cooking bad? Emma finally blurted.
No, its fine, Ian replied, not quite getting it. Its just Mums borscht Ive loved it since I was a kid.
Right, Emma said, setting her spoon down. Im full.
She rose, went to the bedroom, lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. So this is it cook, clean, try to be useful, and still not be appreciated. Mums borscht wins. Mum matters more. My mum, my life, my work, all just background.
A week later Margaret had fully settled rearranged the kitchen to her taste, hung her towels in the bathroom, claimed a shelf in the fridge. She rose early, rattled pots, made breakfasts for sonny, and criticised Emma at every turn.
Emma, why is Ians shirt creased? Cant you use an iron?
Emma, theres hair on the floor in the bathroom! When did you last clean?
Emma, youve put too much salt in the soup! How can anyone eat that?
Emma kept quiet, endured, gritted her teeth.
Then her own mother called, sounding weak.
Mum, my temperatures gone up. I think a draught got me. Ill just lie down, she said.
What temperature? Emma asked, alarmed.
Just 38°C, Margaret replied, coughing. Dont worry.
Emma hung up and went to Ian, who was at his computer.
Ian, my mum is ill. Shes not doing well at the cottage, I need to bring her in, she said.
What do you mean? he replied, eyes glued to the screen. We already have a mum here.
Then let your mum move out! Emma snapped. My mum is sick!
My mum isnt moving anywhere, Ian said coldly. Her renovation isnt finished yet.
So my mum can fall ill at the cottage and yours can stay here? Emmas anger rose. Do you understand what youre saying?
I understand, Ian finally looked up. Your mum is always exaggerating. Thirtyeight degrees isnt a fever.
Shes sixtytwo! Her blood pressure, her heart she cant be out in the cold! Emma shouted.
Dont yell at me, Ian stood. I said no. End of story.
Emma stared at him and realised she barely knew the man she had lived with for fifteen years. He felt like a stranger.
Fine, she whispered. Ill go to my 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. Margaret watched her pile things together.
Leaving for long? she asked.
I dont know. My mums ill, she needs me.
And who will look after you? Margaret snapped.
You, Emma replied, youre his mother.
Emma drove to the cottage. Her mum lay in bed, feverish, coughing, complaining of weakness. Emma lit the wood stove, boiled broth, served tea with honey.
Why are you here, love? her mum asked weakly. Ians alone.
Not alone I have you, Emma replied, pulling the blanket up. You need me more.
She cared for her mum for three days, cooking, cleaning, watching medication. Ian called once to ask when shed be back and never called again.
When her mum recovered, Emma returned home to find the flat in chaos piles of dirty dishes, pots untouched, Margaret lounging in front of the TV.
Oh, youre back, Margaret grunted. We were starving.
Wheres Ian? Emma asked.
At work, of course. Im on my own here. No one to cook, no one to clean.
Emma walked to the kitchen, began washing dishes, fury bubbling inside. She wondered how long Ian and his mother had been waiting for her to return like a servant.
That night Ian finally came home.
Finally! My mums been miserable without you, he said.
Hello to you too, Emma replied coolly. My mums fine, thanks for asking.
So whats for dinner? he asked.
Nothing. I havent cooked, she said.
You havent cooked? Youve been at home all day! Ian sputtered.
Ive been here half an hour, Emma stood. I came in, tidied up after you both. If you want to eat, cook yourself.
What?! Ian was taken aback. Emma, whats happening?
Im exhausted, she said simply. Tired of being the housekeeper. Cook yourself or let my mum do it the very mum you put above me.
She went to the bedroom, shut the door, and refused to answer his demands.
The next morning she got dressed and announced, Im moving back with my mum, permanently. Ill stay here until I decide what to do next.
Youre mad! Ian shouted, eyes wide. Why this drama?
Because you chose your mum over me, she said calmly. Your mum gets priority, my mum gets the leak. Im done being invisible.
Im not crazy, Emma! Ian protested. Youre being ridiculous.
Its not nonsense, she replied, grabbing her bag. Its the truth. Im tired of living for someone elses comfort.
She left the flat, closed the lift doors behind her, and felt an unexpected lightness. For the first time in years she was doing what she wanted, not what was expected.
Her mum greeted her, surprised.
Emma, whats happened? she asked.
Emma explained everything. Her mum listened, shook her head, sighed.
Maybe its too much? she asked gently. Its your husband, after all.
Mate, I spent fifteen years living for him cooking, washing, putting up with his moods. When I had to choose between your health and his mums comfort, he chose his mum. Im not important to him, and you arent either. Only his mum matters.
Her mum sighed, Perhaps youre right. Stay, rest, think things over.
A week later Ian called daily, begging her to return. She let the calls go to voicemail. Eventually he drove to the cottage.
Emma, stop this nonsense! he shouted at the gate. Come home!
Emma stepped out.
I wont return until you understand one simple thing, she said.
Whats that? he asked.
That a family has no important or unimportant members. You cant put one mother above another. Im not a servant. Im a person with my own feelings and dignity, she said firmly.
He was silent, then quietly asked, Will you really not come back?
No, not until you apologise to me and to my mum. And until your mum moves out of our flat, she replied.
My mum still has her renovation, he said.
Then let her rent a place elsewhere, or live in the flat while its being fixed. Its her problem, not ours, Emma said.
Ian left. Emma watched his car disappear, feeling a strange calm. She had finally set boundariesShe turned back toward the cottage, determined to rebuild her life on her own terms.
