Your mum can stay with us; your parents can remain in the village, I said, trying to sound reasonable.
You spent five hundred pounds on a kitchen unit! Emily snapped.
I slammed the receipt onto the table so hard the plates jumped. She flinched, but kept her composure.
It was for the kitchen. The old set fell apart completely the door fell off and the countertop was covered in stains.
Five hundred pounds! We agreed any big purchase would be discussed first.
We talked about it! I told you a month ago. You said, see for yourself.
I never said you could spend that much!
How much do you think a decent kitchen unit should cost? Ten pounds? That was the cheapest I could find!
I paced the kitchen, running my fingers through my hair.
Every penny matters right now. Weve been saving for a car!
We were saving. Well save again. But I need somewhere to cook now, not when we finally get the car.
You could have waited!
Wait? Then wed be cooking on two burners for another six months because the others dont work.
I turned to her.
You know what? If you could actually save, wed already have a car and a bigger flat!
Emilys throat tightened.
Im not a miser. I count every pound to make it to payday. I buy the cheapest food and wear this old coat for the third year in a row.
Exactly, youre playing the victim again!
Im not a victim. Im just stating facts!
We stood facetoface, breathing hard. Emily felt tears well up but held them back. No crying, no showing weakness.
My phone buzzed. I glanced at the screen, saw Mums name, and muttered, Mum, then slipped into the hallway.
Emily stayed in the kitchen, sat down, and rested her head in her hands. What had happened to us? We never fought over money before. We hardly argued at all.
She remembered how we met. I was a patient at the dental practice where she worked as a receptionist. We struck up conversation in the waiting room, I invited her for coffee, and six months later I proposed.
Emily was twentysix, I twentyeight. Both of us worked, rented a flat together, then got a mortgage on a modest onebedroom at the edge of town. Not lavish, but it was ours.
Life was comfortable, not rich, but never short. Arguments were rare, mostly about trivial things. Emily thought everything was fine.
Then something shifted. I grew irritable, nitpicky, constantly bringing up money and saving. I earned a decent salary as a senior manager at a large firm, but still complained.
Emily also worked, though she earned less. She tried to help at home, cooking and squeezing savings wherever she could.
But I found fault in everything: her cooking, her cleaning, her spending.
I returned to the kitchen, my face set.
Emily, we need to talk.
Im listening.
My mum called. Shes unwell her blood pressure spikes, her hearts weak. She cant live alone.
And?
Ive decided shell move in with us until she gets better.
Emily stared at me.
Mark, we only have a onebedroom flat. Where will she stay?
On the sofa in the bedroom. Well shift the kitchen to the living area and put a sofabed in.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother. I cant leave her in that state.
Im not saying we cant, but could we hire a livein carer instead?
A carer costs money we dont have, thanks to your splurges.
Emily clenched her fists under the table.
Fine. What about my parents? Theyre about seventy. Dad struggles with chores, Mum cant walk properly after her stroke.
Your folks live in the village. They have a house and a garden, they manage fine.
Theyre having a hard time! I travel every week to help chopping wood, fetching water, cleaning up!
Keep doing that. But my mum will live here.
Why does your mum get to live here while my parents have to stay in the village?
I looked at her coldly.
Because my mum is alone. Your parents are a pair, its easier for them. Plus, the city has doctors that she needs.
Easier? Mark, do you hear yourself?
I hear. Mum will stay with us, your parents can stay in the village. Thats my decision.
Emily stood up.
You decided, not us. No discussion.
Im the head of the family.
The head of the family, who spends money on fishing gear but cant afford a decent kitchen unit for his wife!
Dont twist my words!
Im not twisting, Im stating facts. You think you have the right to decide for both of us, but when it comes to my parents its a different story!
Your parents are fine!
No! Theyre struggling, and you never even offered to help! You never went with me, never asked what they needed!
I grabbed the car keys.
Im fed up with this argument. Mum arrives on Saturday. Prepare a room.
What if I dont want to?
This is my flat. Im paying the mortgage. My mother will live here, whether you like it or not.
I walked out. Emily sank onto the kitchen floor and wept silently.
This is my flat. My decision. My mother.
And Im just a servant, a shadow who must agree with every move I make?
She wiped her tears, picked up the phone, and dialed her parents.
Hello, love! her mum answered, voice weak.
Hey Mum, how are you?
Fine, just getting by. Dads chopping wood, were heating the stove. Its a chilly year.
Mum, could you move to the city? Ill find a place to rent
Oh, love, why would we? Weve lived here all our lives. And where would you get the money for a rental?
Ill manage.
No need. Well manage. You already do so much for us.
Emily swallowed her sobs.
Ill be in on Sunday with groceries.
Come over, love. Well be glad to see you.
Her parents had never complained; they always said theyd cope. Yet Emily knew how hard their life was an old house, a coalfired stove, water fetched from a tap, wood chopped each day. Dad, seventythree, barely walked after heart surgery. Mum, after a stroke, could barely use her left hand. Still, they refused to be a burden.
My motherinlaw, Dorothy Thompson, lived in a modest twobedroom flat in the city. She was sixtyfive, health not perfect but she managed. She called me ten times a day, offering advice on everything from clothing to where to go. I obeyed without question.
At first I tolerated Emilys protests, then I began to side with my mum more often, claiming she was only looking out for my best interests.
Now Dorothy was moving in with us, into our cramped flat, and Emily was expected to cater to her while her own parents were left in the village.
Dorothy arrived on Saturday morning with three huge suitcases.
Emily, could you help me with these? she shouted from the doorway.
Emily helped in silence, then Dorothy inspected the room.
Its so cramped! Youll need a bigger flat!
We cant afford a bigger place right now, Emily replied bluntly.
You should earn more! Mark, ask for a bonus!
I helped my mother with the boxes, while Dorothy barked orders at me.
Emily retreated to the kitchen, started cooking a stew. Dorothy hovered, critiquing everything.
What are you making?
Stew and meatballs.
Mark cant have fatty food his livers weak!
Its chicken meatballs, steamed.
Still not right. Bring some fish instead. Ive got a pikeperch, Ill show you how to cook it.
I can cook fish.
Can, but not like me. She waved her hand, pushing Emily aside.
The lunch turned into a tense affair. Dorothy talked nonstop about health, neighbours, grocery prices. I nodded, Emily stayed quiet.
Afterward Dorothy rested, Emily washed dishes. I came up behind her.
Thanks for taking my mum in.
Did I have a choice?
Emily, dont start.
Im not starting. Im stating facts. You decided, I complied.
You could be kinder to her.
I am kind.
Youre cold. She feels it.
I turned, angry.
Your mum has taken our bedroom, pushed me from the stove, criticised my cooking, and youre expected to be sweet?
Shes ill!
Shes used to ordering people around! And you let it happen!
Thats enough! I shouted. Shes my mother! I wont let you insult her!
Im not insulting, Im speaking the truth!
Dorothys voice drifted from the bedroom.
Mark, whats happening? Are you fighting?
No, Mum, everythings fine. I forced a smile and walked away.
Emily stayed at the sink, wiped her eyes, finished the plates.
Weeks passed. Dorothy settled in, occupying half the wardrobe, spreading her belongings across the flat. Emily and I slept on a sofabed in the kitchen; my back ached from the poor position.
Every morning Dorothy blared the radio, made a heavy breakfast Emily refused to eat, then lectured:
Emily, youre washing the floor wrong. Look, you should do it like this.
Emily, your laundry temperatures too low.
Emily, that outfit doesnt suit you.
Emily endured, doing everything as shed always done. Dorothy complained to me, I blamed Emily.
Why cant you listen to my mum? She wants to help!
Youre rude and ungrateful!
The arguments became daily. Emily felt drained work, house, motherinlaw, husband. And her own parents, whom she could no longer visit as often because Dorothy demanded attention. She hired a neighbour to run errands for her parents, paying her out of her own pocket.
One evening Emily sat at the kitchen table, tallying expenses. Money was short before payday. She needed to buy medicine for her dad, pay the neighbour, cover the council tax.
Dorothy entered.
Emily, I need new slippers. These are tight. Can you give me some money?
I dont have any spare cash.
How can that be? Mark got his salary!
My pay goes straight to the mortgage and food.
What about your salary?
Mine goes to my parents medicine, the bills, everyday costs.
My parents! Always you supporting them, never you supporting me!
Dorothy snapped, stormed out, then complained to me in the hallway.
You refused my mum money for slippers!
I turned red with anger.
You really turned my mother down for money?
I have no spare cash!
And you have money for your own parents?
My parents need medicine!
My mum also needs slippers!
The shouting grew louder, Dorothy standing in the doorway, pleased with the chaos.
Emily watched, feeling like a cornered animal.
Thats enough, she said quietly. Im done.
What do you mean enough? Mark asked, confused.
Everything. Im tired of being treated like a servant. Im tired of my parents being nothing to you.
Emily, stop having a tantrum!
This isnt a tantrum, its a decision. Im leaving.
I froze.
Where are you going?
To my parents. Ill live with them. If my help isnt wanted here, Ill go.
Youve gone mad!
No, Ive just decided. You two can manage without me.
I followed her to the bedroom as she packed.
Emily, stop! You cant just walk out!
I can. Im leaving.
What about me?
Youll manage. You have your mum; shell cook, wash, iron for you.
I love you!
Emily stopped, looked into my eyes.
If you loved me, you wouldnt let your mother push me aside. You wouldnt put her wishes above my needs. You wouldnt forget my dads birthday next week, or ask if he needed help.
I had no reply.
Im exhausted being alone in this marriage, she continued. I want to care for those who value my care.
She closed her suitcase, grabbed her bag.
Emily, wait! Lets talk!
Its too late. It should have been earlier.
She walked out, Dorothy standing in the corridor, smirking.
Youre leaving? Fine. Mark will be better off without you.
Emily paused, then opened the front door into the cold, snowy night. She hailed a cab, headed for the train station, bought a bus ticket to the village.
She arrived late, the house quiet. Her parents were asleep. She slipped inside, changed into a sweatshirt, collapsed onto the old sofa in the living room.
Morning smelled of pancakes. Her mum was at the stove.
Emily! Youre here!
Yeah, Im staying for good.
What about Mark?
Hes staying with his mum. Itll be easier for them.
Her mum hugged her tightly.
My poor girl, how did it come to this?
It just happened, Mum.
They sat with tea, Emily recounting the fights, the decision to leave.
You did right, her dad said. You cant endure humiliation. Love isnt about tolerating abuse. Its about respect, and he didnt give you that.
Emily nodded, feeling the truth.
She took a job at the village library. The pay was modest, but enough for her needs. She helped her parents around the house, slowly adjusting to rural life.
Mark called a few times, begging her to return, promising change. She was skeptical.
A month later he turned up on the doorstep.
Can I come in?
Come in.
They sat in the kitchen while her parents tended the garden outside.
Emily, I finally understand. My mum was driving me crazy. I sent her back to her flat.
Why?
Because I realized I was putting her above you, ignoring your parents, ignoring you.
What now?
I want you back. Ill start over. Ill help your parents more, listen to you, never put my mum ahead of you again.
Emily looked at him, wanting to believe but wary.
How much time do I need?
I dont know. Maybe a month, two. I need to prove Ive changed.
He nodded.
Over the next three months Mark visited weekly, helped her dad chop wood, repaired the roof, fetched water, talked to both sets of grandparents. He seemed sincere.
One evening on the porch he said, Emily, I sold the flat.
What?!
I sold it and bought a threebedroom house. If you want, your parents can move in with us.
Emily felt tears rise.
And your mum?
Shes upset, but I told her she either accepts you and your family or shell see less of us. She chose the first.
Really?
Yes. She even wants to come over to your parents place and apologise.
Emily didnt know what to say.
Will you come back? Mark asked.
She looked at his earnest face, his hands still dirty from the garden.
Ill come back, but on one condition were equal. My parents are as important as your mum. My opinion matters as much as yours.
I agree. I promise.
They embraced on the porch of the old cottage.
Emily knew there would still be work ahead rebuilding trust, balancing families, learning to share. But they had finally grasped the core of a family: respect.
Years later, Mark and Emily watched their blended families laugh together around the kitchen table, finally realizing that true partnership means sharing love, respect, and responsibility equally.
