I was standing by the fridge, clutching the grocery bags, when I heard my wife, Emma, talking to her mother on the phone.
Did you buy that pork sausage again? I told you its dreadful!
Emma froze, her hand still wrapped around the bag. She hadnt even greeted me when I walked in from work, let alone kissed me.
Hello, love, she managed to keep her voice steady. I bought the one that was on sale. Were a bit short on cash these days.
Short on cash? I raised my voice. Were barely making ends meet, and youre splurging on nonsense!
Nonsense? Emmas cheeks flushed with hurt. I only buy what we need!
I waved my hand and stalked into the bedroom, leaving Emma standing in the kitchen, fingers tightening around the bag handles. Wed been married eight years, and the arguments had only started three months ago. Shed be criticised for cooking, for where she put things, for spending too much. It was a side of her Id never seen before.
She began arranging the groceries on the shelves, hands trembling. She wanted to cry, but she held herself together. Dinner needed to be ready; our nineyearold daughter, Lily, would be home from school any minute, and she couldnt see her mother in tears.
That evening we ate in silence. Lily, a bright little thing, sensed the tension and kept to herself, swallowing her soup quickly before asking to do her homework.
Go on, sunshine, Emma said, kissing Lily on the crown.
When Lily left, I finally spoke.
I need to visit Mum this weekend. Shes not feeling well.
Right, Emma nodded. Shall I come with you?
No, Ill go alone. You stay home; theres plenty to do.
I wanted to argue, but I kept quiet. Over the past months Id learned to swallow my complaints. We used to discuss everything, argue, make up. Now there was a wall between us.
On Saturday I left early for my mothers flat. Emma spent the day washing, cleaning, cooking lunch the same routine that had once seemed easy but now felt laborious. Anxiety gnawed at her, refusing to leave.
Lily played in her room while Emma tidied the bedroom. She opened the kitchen window for fresh air and heard voices on the balcony. At first she thought the neighbours were chatting, but then she recognised my voice.
My mother, Margaret Walker, was standing on the balcony of her flat not the neighbours, but the one right above ours. She lived in the building next door, on the same floor. Emma had once liked how close we were, thinking it convenient. Now she wasnt so sure.
Mum, I cant take this any longer, I said, my tone unusually plaintive.
Son, you must be firm, Margaret replied. A woman ought to know her place.
Emma froze, guilt tearing at her. She knew she shouldnt be eavesdropping, yet she couldnt turn away from the window.
She doesnt understand a thing, I continued. I tell her one thing, she does another.
Exactly, Margaret agreed. Youre too gentle with her. You need to keep her in check. Ive always said that.
But I cant keep shouting at her, I protested.
Then be stricter. Let her see youre the head of the house, or shell go soft.
A shiver ran down Emmas spine. Soft? She worked from dawn till dusk, cooking, cleaning, raising Lily, and still held a parttime job at the local library to help with the bills. And this was called soft?
Im trying, Mum, I sighed. Sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Pity wont help, Margaret said sharply. Youre the man, the familys pillar. If youre gentle, shell sit on your neck. All women are the same.
Not all of them
All! I raised you right, youre kind and caring, but in marriage thats a weakness. You must keep your wife in line.
Emma stepped back from the window, her legs wobbling. She covered her mouth, sank onto the bed, and the room seemed to roar like a vacuum cleaner.
So that was it. It wasnt that Id changed overnight; it was Margaret steering me. I remembered her weeklong stay with us about four months ago. After that visit, I became a different man.
I recalled the oddities of recent months how often I drove to my mothers, how each visit left me colder, more demanding. How I began nitpicking over details that never bothered me before.
Mum, are you crying? Lily asked, standing in the doorway, eyes wide with fear.
Tears slipped down Emmas cheeks before she could stop them. She wiped them quickly.
No, love, just my eyes are a bit itchy. Probably dust.
Really?
Absolutely, Emma forced a smile. Go on and play. Ill have lunch ready soon.
When Lily left, Emma sat on the bed, wondering what to do. Should she confront me? Tell me shed overheard? That would spark a fight, and Id accuse her of spying, pushing me further away.
Silence? How could she live knowing my mother was manipulating me? Every harsh word, every petty complaint seemed to come from Margaret, not from me.
The rest of the day drifted like fog. Emma cooked lunch but tasted nothing. She talked to Lily but heard none of her words.
I came back that evening, dropped my keys on the hall table.
Dinner ready? I asked, skipping the greeting.
Yes, Ill heat it up, Emma replied, placing the pan on the stove. Her hands moved on autopilot while Margarets words replayed in her head: keep her in check, soft, pity wont help.
Something wrong? I asked, sitting down. You seem off.
Nothing, just tired, she said, serving me a plate. Thats all.
See, its the same again, I muttered. Always tired. What do you do all day, just sit at home?
I dont just sit, she snapped back quietly. I work at the library.
A library job, parttime, barely anything, I retorted. Couldnt you just tidy the house properly?
Emma clenched her teeth, reminding herself not to argue, not to let Lily hear.
The night stretched on, Lily asleep, Emma nursing a cold tea in the kitchen while I watched TV in the living room. We had become strangers sharing a roof.
I thought back to when we first met, both twentythree. I was a trainee accountant, she a shop assistant in a bookshop. Id walked in to buy a birthday present for a friend, struck up a conversation, invited her for coffee. Dates, laughter, gentle touches. She was attentive, caring.
Even then my mother, Margaret, had made it clear she didnt think I deserved someone from a modest background, that I could do better. I ignored her, told Emma I loved her and that was enough.
We married despite mums disapproval, welcomed Lily, and the early years were hard but happy. We weathered sleepless nights, baby fevers, money tightness. I was their rock.
Then Margaret began visiting more often, phoning several times a day, coaxing me to spend time at her flat. I went, she went, I went.
The next day I decided to speak to my mother, not to argue but to discuss. I knocked on her door.
Come in, she said, surprised.
Her flat was tidy with old furniture, lace napkins everywhere, pictures of me at various ages on the walls, none of Emma or Lily.
Tea? she offered.
No thanks, Ill be short, I said.
We sat at the kitchen table. She looked me over.
I wanted to talk about us, Emma began. Youve probably noticed things arent going smoothly.
I have, Margaret replied. James told me.
Thats why Im here. Could you maybe stay out of our affairs?
Interfere? Hes my son! I have a right to be involved.
Involved, yes. But not turning him against Emma.
What do you mean? Margarets tone grew cold.
I heard you on the balcony yesterday.
Silence fell. Margarets face turned pale, then flushed.
You were listening?
I didnt mean to. I just opened a window and heard you saying I should keep her in check.
And what of it? Margaret straightened. I was telling the truth. Shes become soft, just as I said.
I work from sunrise to sunset! Emmas anger boiled. I care for the family, raise Lily, support you, and still work at the library. Is that soft?
Yes, because the house is always a mess, youre thin, you cant cook properly. Your job is unnecessary. A womans place is at the stove.
Were not in the 1950s!
Exactly why families fall apart, Margaret declared. Women want careers, independence, and men end up miserable.
Lily isnt abandoned! I give her all my time!
She needs a calm mother, not a frantic one.
Emma realised the conversation was at a dead end and stood.
Fine. I wont give up. This is my family and Ill fight for it, she said.
Remember, James is my son. Hell always listen to me, not you.
Emma left, tears finally spilling as she reached her flat. She let them fall in the kitchen, wiping them away slowly.
Later that night I came home, looking grim.
Were you at your mothers? Emma asked.
Yes.
Why?
To talk.
She sighed.
She called. Said youd been rude to her.
I wasnt! I just asked you not to interfere.
She isnt interfering. Shes giving advice.
James, dont you see whats happening? Shes turning you against me! Manipulating you!
Nonsense, I brushed off. Mum just wants me happy.
Are you happy? Emma asked, looking straight at me. Be honest.
I hesitated, then admitted.
Im exhausted, I said. Tired of the constant accusations, your tears, these arguments.
Then lets change things. Lets go back to how it was.
It cant be the same, I muttered, heading to the bedroom.
For the first time in years I wondered whether we should even stay together.
That night I couldnt sleep. I lay staring at the ceiling while Emma snored beside me, turned toward the wall. Between us was a chill as if an iceberg lay between us.
In the morning I left for work without a word. Emma took Lily to school and headed to the library.
My supervisor, Mrs. Clarke, noticed something was off.
Whats wrong? she asked, alone in the back room.
I didnt want to tell her, but the words spilled out: the eavesdropped balcony talk, the visits to Margaret, everything.
You know, men are more susceptible to a mothers influence than women, Mrs. Clarke said calmly. Your mums a classic overprotective type. Shes using you.
But it wasnt like this before!
Before you lived separately. Now she lives nearby, can meddle constantly. Shes exploiting that.
What should I do?
First, dont give up. Second, try to win James back, remind him of who you were. Third, think about yourself. Are you ready to fight for someone who doesnt fight for you?
Those words lodged in my mind. Was I ready? I reflected on our early days the flowers, the compliments, the nervous excitement when Lily was born, the pride I felt holding her tiny hand in the delivery room. All that still existed somewhere inside us.
That evening I cooked his favourite roast potatoes with mushrooms. I set the table nicely, lit a few candles.
He walked in, surprised.
Whats this? he asked.
Dinner, I said, smiling. Lets eat like before.
He sat, I served him a portion, poured tea.
Remember our first holiday by the lake? I asked. You tried to show off your swimming and almost drowned.
He chuckled.
How could I forget? You scolded me for an hour afterwards.
I was scared, thought Id lose you.
We talked a little about the past. He even managed a few smiles. Hope flickered.
Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
Mum, he said, heading for the hallway.
I heard fragments.
Yes, Mum No, its fine Youre right I understand
When he returned, his face was closed again.
I need to go to Mums. Shes not feeling well.
Already? Its evening.
Its urgent.
He left without finishing his plate. I sat at the table, the candles guttering, tears slipping into the food, but I didnt wipe them away.
Lily entered the doorway.
Mum, why are you crying? she asked.
Just a little tired, love. Go to bed.
Did you argue with Daddy?
No, everythings fine.
But Lily was clever. She hugged me tightly.
Dont cry, I love you.
I love you too, I whispered, feeling a surge of warmth.
James returned late, looking weary.
Hows Mum? I asked.
Shes stable, her blood pressure spiked, he replied.
James, we need to talk. Seriously.
Not now. Im exhausted.
When then? Weve stopped talking altogether!
Tomorrow. Well talk then.
Tomorrow never came. He went to work early, returned late, spent his weekends at his mothers, then back to work. The pattern repeated.
I realised this could not continue. I wrote him a long message, telling him I loved him but could no longer live under this strain, that his mother was destroying our marriage and we needed change or wed lose each other.
He read it but didnt answer. That night he came home, looking sour.
I read your message, he said. Youre dramatising.
Dramatising? James, we barely speak! You pick fights over everything! Were strangers!
Because you wont change! he snapped. Mums right, youre stubborn and headstrong. You dont listen to anyone.
I dont listen to your mother because she hates me! She wants to ruin our marriage!
Shes just looking out for me! he retorted.
Then why do I become a different person after every talk with her?
He fell silent, staring at me.
Maybe Im changing. Maybe Mum is opening my eyes to things I ignored.
What things?
That youre not the perfect wife. The house is a mess, the foods terrible, youre always unhappy.
My heart cracked. He truly believed that.
Fine, I said quietly. If thats how you feel, maybe you should look for a perfect wife.
His face went pale.
What are you saying?
Im saying Im tired. Tired of fighting, proving myself, justifying my existence. If Im that bad, why do you stay?
Dont say that.
Its not nonsense. Its reality. Think about it. Im going to sleep.
I went to the bedroom, closed the door, lay down and felt a massive weight lift as I finally spoke my truth.
The next morning James left for work without a goodbye. I took Lily to school and headed to my parents house three hours away by train. My mother, Helen, welcomed us warmly.
Come on in, love, she said. Whats happened?
Ill tell you later, I whispered.
The evening, after Lily fell asleep, I recounted everything to my parents. My father listened, his face growing serious.
I should go talk to that boy, he muttered.
No, dad, its our problem, my mother interjected. Youre our daughter, so were involved.
Were involved, my mother corrected. Youre my child, so I have a say.
I smiled through tears, grateful for their support.
I stayed with them three days, no phone, no worries. I walked with Lily, helped my mother with chores, chatted with my father. On the fourth day I finally checked my phone: thirty missed calls from James, a handful of frantic messages.
Where are you? Why arent you answering? Im worried! Please tell me youre okay. Im sorry. We need to talk.
The last one, sent an hour ago: I miss you, Lily, and you. Come back, please.
I dialed his number. He answered after the first ring.
Emma! Thank God! Where are you?
At my parents, everythings fine.
Why didnt you answer? I had nowhere to go!
I needed time to think. You too.
A pause.
Ive thought a lot, James said quietly. I see now youre right. Mum was turning me against you. I just didnt want to admit it.
My heart quickened.
Go on.
When you werent here, I tried cooking, cleaning, doing everything on my own. I realised how much you actually do. Im sorry, I was a blind fool.
And your mum?
I told her I wont let her meddle in our life any more. She was hurt, but thatsWe finally agreed to rebuild our life together, leaving her meddling behind once and for all.
