Your mother will move in with us, and your parents can stay up in the country, Michael declared, his voice flat as a pewter plate.
You spent fourhundred and eighty pounds on what? A kitchen set? Emily snapped, her hand trembling as the receipt flew onto the table, making the cups wobble.
On the set, Michael grunted. The old one finally fell apartdoor came off, the worktop was mottled with stains.
Fourhundred and eighty pounds! We agreed any big purchase would be discussed first.
We did talk, didnt we? I told you a month ago, and you said, Look for yourself.
I never said spend that much!
How much, in your mind, does a decent set cost? Tenhundred pounds? That was the cheapest you could find!
He paced the cramped kitchen, fingers twisting his hair nervously.
Every penny counts now. Weve been saving for a car.
Well save, but I need somewhere to cook tonight, not when the car arrives.
You could have waited.
Wait? Another six months cooking on two burners because the rest are broken?
Michael turned, eyes sharp.
If you could stretch a penny, wed have a car and a bigger flat by now!
Emily felt a lump rise in her throat.
I cant stretch a penny? Im the one who counts every pound to make it to payday, who buys the cheapest groceries, whos still in that threadbare coat for three years.
Exactlynow youre the victim again!
Im not a victim! Im just stating facts!
They stood opposite each other, breathing hard. Emily fought back tears, refusing to show weakness.
Michaels phone rang. He glanced at the screen, then said, Mum, and slipped out into the hallway.
Alone, Emily sank onto the kitchen chair, head in her hands. How had they come to this? Once theyd never quarrel over money; now it was the very air they breathed.
She remembered the first time they met. Shed been the receptionist at a dental practice when Michael walked in for a filling. They chatted while waiting, he invited her for coffee, and half a year later he proposed. She was twentysix, he twentyeight; they rented a modest flat together, later bought a onebedroom terraced house on the outskirts of town. It wasnt lavish, but it was theirs.
Life was steady. Neither rich nor destitute, arguments scarce and petty. Then Michael grew sour, his jokes turning to complaints about cash, about saving. He earned well as a middlemanager at a large firm; Emily earned less, doing her best at a local shop, keeping the home tidy, stretching every shilling.
His mood soured: You didnt cook right, you left a mess, you spent too much. He returned to the kitchen, face solemn.
Emily, we need to talk, he said.
Im listening.
My mother called. Her blood pressure is erratic, her hearts not right. She cant live alone.
And?
Ive decided shell move in with us until she gets better.
Emily stared at him. Michael, we only have a onebedroom. Where will she sleep?
On the sofa in the sitting room. Well shift the bed, set up a foldout.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother; I cant leave her to fend for herself.
Im not saying we cant help, but perhaps a livein carer? Or
A carer costs moneymoney we simply dont have, thanks to your splurges.
Emily clenched her fists under the table. What about my parents? Theyre seventy, my father cant manage the house, my mother cant walk after her stroke.
They live in the village. They have their own cottage, a garden. Theyre fine.
Theyre not fine! I drive up every week to chop wood, fetch water, tidy up.
Keep doing that. But my mum will be here.
Why does your mother get priority while my parents have to struggle in the country?
Michaels stare hardened. Because my mother is alone. Your parents are together, its easier for them. Plus, the city has doctors; the village doesnt.
Easier? Michael, do you hear yourself?
I hear. Your mother will stay with us, your parents can remain in the village. Thats my decision.
Emily rose, voice shaking. You decided, not us. No discussion.
Im the head of the household.
The head of the household who spends on fishing gear but balks at buying a kitchen set for his wife! she laughed bitterly.
Dont twist my words! Michael hissed.
Im not twistingjust stating! You think you have the right to decide for both of us, but when it comes to my parents, youre suddenly silent.
Your parents live comfortably!
No! Theyre struggling, and you never offer to help. You never go with me, never ask if they need anything.
He snatched the car keys. Im fed up. Mum arrives Saturday. Prepare a room.
Or what if I refuse?
This is my flat. I pay the mortgage. My mother will live here, whether you like it or not.
He walked out. Emily collapsed onto the kitchen floor, sobbing silently. This was her home, her decision, her mother. Was she now a servant, a shadow forced to obey?
She wiped her tears, dialled her parents. Hello, love, her mother answered, voice frail.
Mum, how are you?
Nothing much. Dads chopping firewood, were stoking the stove. Its a cold winter.
Mum, could you move to the town? I could find a flat
Dont be silly, Emily! Weve spent our whole lives here. And where would you get the money for a rented place?
Ill manage.
Dont. Well manage. You already do enough. Just dont wear yourself out.
Emily swallowed another tide of tears. Ill be there Sunday with supplies.
Her parents never complained. Yet their cottage creaked, the water had to be hauled from a pump, the old stove sputtered. Her father, seventythree, barely walked after a heart operation; her mother, after a stroke, struggled with her left hand. Still they persevered, refusing to be a burden.
Her motherinlaw, Margaret Hargreaves, lived alone in a twobedroom flat in the city. At sixtyfive she was still spry enough, though not in perfect health. Margaret called Michael ten times a day, advising him on everythingfrom what to wear to where to shop. He obeyed without question.
At first Emily endured. Then she objected, but Michael always sided with his mother, telling Emily she didnt understand his mothers good intentions.
Now Margaret moved into their cramped flat, and Emily was expected to tend to her while her own parents were left to the village.
One night Michael returned, bypassed the hallway without a greeting. Emily lay on the sofa, pretending to sleep. In the morning he left a note on the kitchen table: Prepare a room for Mum on Saturday. Clean the floors, change the sheets. She crumpled it and tossed it in the bin.
Friday evening she drove to her parents cottage, delivering food, medicine, helping her father split logs, cleaning her mothers kitchen. Over tea her mother asked, You look pale, dear. Everything alright?
Its fine, Mum, Emily lied.
Dont. I can see when youre upset.
Margaret is moving in with us, she confessed.
Ah, thats that then, her father shrugged. Shell have the spare room, youll sleep on the sofa.
Its not spare, its our bedroom. Well be on the pullout couch in the kitchen. Shell stay longer than she says, I fear.
Her mother sighed. I understand, love. Its hard sharing a roof with your motherinlaw. But a son must look after his own mother.
Does a daughter not look after her parents? Emily blurted.
Her parents exchanged a glance. What are you on about? her father asked.
I suggested we bring you both to town, maybe a bigger flat. He refused, saying the village is better for you, she replied.
Her mother patted her hand. Were used to it. The city would be cramped for us.
Youre struggling! Father can barely walk, you cant use your left hand!
We manage. The important thing is youre healthy, and Michael is fine. Dont worry about us.
Emily pressed her forehead to her mothers, tears spilling over. Im exhausted. Im tired of being second, of seeing his mother always placed above my own parents.
Shh, love, her mother whispered, smoothing her hair. It will pass. Shell stay a while, then return home.
But Emily couldnt trust that.
Saturday morning Margaret arrived with three massive suitcases. Emily, give me a hand with these! she called from the doorway.
Emily helped, silently. Margaret inspected the flat, then declared, Youre living too small! You need a bigger place.
We cant afford one, Emily answered curtly.
Earn more! You should ask for a bonus, Michael!
Margaret began directing Michael around the kitchen, telling him where to put things, what to hang, how to clean. Emily retreated to the stove, grinding her teeth as Margaret barked, Michael cant have fatty food; his livers weak! Emily offered chicken cutlets, Margaret overruled, Fish, better! I brought pike, Ill show you how to cook it.
She pushed Emily aside, taking over the pan. The lunch passed under a tense cloud of commands.
Afterward, Margaret lounged in the sitting room while Michael thanked Emily for taking in his mother. Did I have a choice? Emily snapped.
Dont start, Michael warned.
Im not starting, Im stating. You decided, I obeyed, she replied.
Be nicer to her, Michael said.
Youre being cold, Emily retorted.
Youre the one whos cold, he shot back.
Margarets voice drifted from the hallway, Michael, whats happening? Are you fighting?
No, Mum, alls well, he called, trying to smooth things over.
A week later Margaret had claimed half the wardrobe, spread her belongings across the flat. Emily and Michael slept on a pullout couch in the kitchen; the mattress hurt her back. Margaret rose early, rattling dishes, preparing a heavy breakfast Emily refusedrich, greasy, far beyond what she needed. Then she turned up the television volume, berated Emily on how she washed floors, laundered, dressed.
Michael defended her, Why cant you listen to my mother? Shes only trying to help!
Youre being ungrateful! Margaret shouted.
The arguments became daily. Emily felt her strength slipping under the weight of work, home, Margaret, and Michael. Her own parents needed her too, but the inlaws demands left little time to visit.
One evening Emily sat at the kitchen table, tallying expenses. Money was short for the next payday; she still needed to buy medicine for her father, pay a neighbour for occasional help, and cover the council tax.
Margaret entered. Emily, I need new slippers. These are too tight. Can you spare some money?
I have nothing spare, Emily said.
How can that be? Michaels salary is in the bank!
It goes to the mortgage and food, Emily replied.
And yours? Margaret pressed.
My wages go to my parents prescriptions, the bills, the pantry, Emily answered.
Your parents! Margaret snapped. You always give them money, but never think of me!
Your pension is small, Emily said.
It isnt enough! I need more! Margaret complained.
She left, and a minute later Michael burst in, redfaced. You refused my mothers money for slippers?
I have no extra! Emily protested.
And you have enough for your own parents? he demanded.
My parents are ill! They need medication! she retorted.
My mother is also ill! She needs those slippers! he shouted.
The room echoed with their shouting, Margaret watching smugly from the doorway.
Emily finally raised her voice, Enough! I am done. I cant keep being treated like a servant. My parents mean nothing to you, and Im tired of it.
Emily, dont have a fit! Michael warned.
This isnt a fit. Its a decision. Im leaving, she said, standing.
Where to? he asked, stunned.
To my parents cottage. Ill stay with them. If you dont need me here, thats fine.
Michael whispered, Are you mad?
No, Im simply choosing. He stared at her, then at the empty flat. Youll manage, you have your mother. Shell cook, wash, iron.
I love you, he pleaded.
Emily looked into his eyes. If you loved me, you wouldnt let your mother push me aside. Youd remember my fathers birthday next week, youd ask if they needed help, youd visit them.
He fell silent. Ive been blind.
She packed a suitcase, her hands steady. Ill go now.
Margaret stood in the hallway, arms crossed. Leaving? Fine, then. Michael will be better off without you.
Emily paused at the door, the cold wind biting as snow fell outside. She hailed a cab, rode to the train station, bought a ticket to the village.
That night she slipped into the cottage, the old sofa in the sitting room creaking under her. In the morning the smell of fresh pancakes floated from the kitchen. Her mother beamed, Emily! Youre finally here.
Here for good? Margaret asked.
No, not for Michael. Im staying with you.
Her father, after a brief pause, said, You did right. No one should endure that kind of treatment.
They sat over tea, and Emily recounted the months of strife, the decision to leave. Her father nodded, Love isnt about tolerating humiliation. Its about respect.
Emily took a job at the village library. The pay was modest but enough. She helped her parents with chores, the garden, and the old woodburning stove. Michael called at first, begging her to return, promising change. She listened, wary.
A month later he turned up at the cottage gate. May I come in? he asked.
She opened the door. He stepped inside, the garden behind him.
Ive realised everything. I sent Mum back home. I cant live with her dictating everything. I want you back. Ill help your parents, Ill listen, Ill change.
She studied his face, searching for sincerity. How long do I have to think?
Whatever you need. A month, two months. Ill wait.
He left, promising to return each week, helping her father with firewood, repairing the roof, chatting with her mother about health. Slowly, Emily saw effort, genuine remorse.
One evening, on the porch, he said, I sold the flat. Bought a threebedroom house so your parents could move in with us if they wish.
Emilys eyes widened. You really did that?
Yes. I finally understood that Id been putting my mother above you and your family. Im sorry.
She felt the old swell of tears. And Mum? she asked.
Shes angry, but I told her she must accept you and your family, or well see each other rarely. She chose to try.
Emily looked at the weathered hands that had tended the garden all day, the honest effort in his voice. Ill come back, but only if were equal. My parents are as important as yours. My voice matters as much as yours.
He nodded, Agreed. I promise.
They embraced on the old porch, the night air crisp. Emily knew there would still be work aheadrebuilding trust, balancing families, sharing a home. Yet she felt hope. The lesson was clear: a family is built on mutual respect, not on one sides dominance. Love, she realised, could not thrive on onesided sacrifice.
Margaret did indeed return a week later, apologising to Emilys parents, even helping Emilys mother with the garden. Whether it was a miracle or simply a son finally growing up, the house felt lighter.
Emily moved back to the city, into a new, larger flat. Her parents stayed in the village, content, while she and Michael visited often, helping whenever they could. The balance was finally right, and the story, she thought, was a reminder that family, in all its branches, deserves equal love and care.
