Your mum can live with us; your parents can stay in the village, Oliver declared.
You spent fourhundred pounds on what? A kitchen set?!
Oliver flung the receipt onto the table so hard the plates jumped. Imogen flinched, but forced a calm smile.
It was for the set. The old one fell apart completely the door fell off, the worktop was a mess of stains.
Fourhundred! We agreed any big purchase would be discussed first!
We did talk! I reminded you a month ago. You said, Look for yourself!
I never said spend that much!
How much do you think a decent set costs? Ten pounds? That was the cheapest you could find!
Oliver paced the kitchen, tugging at his hair.
Were watching every penny! Weve been saving for a car!
Well save, but I need a proper kitchen now, not when the car finally arrives.
You could have waited!
Wait? And keep cooking on two burners for another six months because the rest are broken?
Oliver turned to her.
You know what? If you could actually save, wed already have the car and a bigger flat!
Imogen felt a lump rise in her throat.
Dont tell me I cant save! I count every penny to stretch it to the end of the month, I buy the cheapest groceries and wear the same coat for three years.
Exactly, youre playing the victim again!
Im not a victim! Im just stating facts!
They faced each other, breathing hard. Imogen fought back tears. No crying. No showing weakness.
Olivers phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
Mum, he muttered, and slipped out into the hallway.
Imogen stayed in the kitchen, sank onto a chair, and rested her head in her hands. What had happened to them? They used to argue about nothing, certainly not money. She remembered how theyd met she was frontdesk at a dental practice, hed come in for a filling, they chatted in the waiting room, he invited her for coffee, six months later he proposed.
She was twentysix, he twentyeight. Both working, sharing a flat, then a mortgage on a modest onebed flat on the outskirts of Birmingham. Not rich, but not starving either. Arguments were rare and petty. She thought they were fine.
Then something cracked. Oliver grew irritable, nitpicky, constantly bringing up money and frugality, even though he earned a decent salary as a senior manager at a large firm. Imogen earned less, tried to help at home, cook, save where she could.
But nothing was ever right for him. You overcooked, you didnt clean properly, you spent too much.
Oliver returned to the kitchen, his face serious.
Imogen, we need to talk.
Im listening.
My mum called. Her health is failing blood pressure spikes, hearts not steady. She cant live alone.
And?
Ive decided shell move in with us until she gets better.
Imogen stared at him.
Oliver, we only have a onebed flat. Where will she stay?
On the sofa in the bedroom. Well move the bed to the kitchen and put a pullout couch.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mum. I cant leave her on her own in that state.
Im not saying she cant stay, but perhaps a livein carer? Or
A carer costs money we, remember, dont have because of your spending.
Imogen clenched her fists under the table.
What about my parents? Theyre both seventyplus. Dad cant manage the house, Mum still struggles after her stroke.
Your parents live in the village. They have a house, a garden. Theyre fine there.
Theyre not fine! I go every weekend to chop wood, fetch water, tidy up!
Keep doing that. My mum will be here.
Why does your mum get priority while my folks have to stay in the sticks?
Olivers stare turned cold.
Because my mum is alone. Your parents are a pair, its easier for them. And the town has doctors, while your parents are used to the countryside.
Used? Oliver, do you hear yourself?
Im hearing. Your mum will live with us, your folks can stay in the village. Thats my decision.
Imogen stood.
You decided, not us. No discussion.
Im the head of the household.
The head of the household! she laughed bitterly the bloke who spends on fishing gear and a new rod, yet balks at a kitchen set for his wife!
Dont twist my words!
Im not twisting! Im stating facts! You think you can dictate everything, but when it comes to my mum, its a different story!
Your parents are fine!
No! Theyre struggling, and you never even offer to help! You never go with me, you never ask if they need anything!
Oliver grabbed the car keys.
Im tired of this. Mum arrives Saturday. Prepare a room.
What if I dont want to?
He stopped at the door.
This is my flat. I pay the mortgage. My mum will live here, like it or not.
He left. Imogen sank to the kitchen floor and wept, quietly, hopelessly.
This is my flat. My decision. My mum.
And who was she? A servant? A shadow forced to agree with every whim?
She wiped her tears, grabbed her phone, and called her parents.
Hello, love! her mum answered, voice faint.
Mum, how are you?
Not bad, just keeping busy. Dads been chopping wood, were stoking the old coal stove. Its a chilly year.
Mum, could you move to the town? I could find a flat
Dont be silly, love! Weve lived here all our lives. And where would the money come from for a rented place?
Ill figure something out.
No need. Well manage. You already do so much. Just dont overwork yourself.
Imogen swallowed another sob.
Mum, Ill be there Sunday with groceries.
Come on over, love. Well be thrilled.
Her parents never complained, always insisting they could manage. Yet Imogen saw the cracked walls, the coalheating, the bucket of water from the well. Dad, seventythree, barely walked after a heart operation. Mum, poststroke, struggled with her left hand. Still, they refused to be a burden.
Olivers mother, Valerie, lived in the city in a twobed flat. She was sixtyfive, not in perfect health but selfsufficient. Oliver was an only child, his mothers righthand. Valerie called him ten times a day, offering advice on everything from what to wear to where to go. Oliver obeyed without question.
At first Imogen endured, then she rebelled, but Oliver always sided with his mum, claiming she only wanted the best for him. Now the motherinlaw was moving into their cramped flat. Imogen would have to cook and clean for her, while her own parents stayed in the village.
One evening Oliver came back late, headed straight to the bedroom, barely greeting Imogen who was lounging on the sofa, pretending to sleep.
The next morning he left a note on the kitchen table: Prepare a room for Mum on Saturday. Clean the floors, change the bedding.
Imogen crumpled the note and tossed it in the bin.
That Friday she drove to the village, delivered food and meds, helped Dad split firewood, tidied Mums house. Over tea, Mum looked at her.
You look pale. Everything alright?
Everythings fine, Mum.
Dont lie. I can see youre upset.
Ive got my motherinlaw moving in. Oliver decided that.
Ah, well, Dad shrugged. Old people can stay where they need.
Dad, our flat is onebed. Shell take the bedroom. Oliver and I will sleep on the sofa in the kitchen.
Give it time. She wont be here forever, right?
Oliver says until shes better. No one knows when that is.
Mum sighed. I understand, love. Its hard with a motherinlaw under the same roof. But a son must look after his mother.
A daughter doesnt have to look after her parents? Imogen snapped.
Dad and Mum exchanged glances.
What are you on about? Dad asked.
I suggested we bring you both into the town, get a bigger flat, help more. He said the village is better for you.
Well, thats how weve always been, Mum said, patting Imogens hand. Were used to it. Itll be cramped for us in the city.
Mum, youre struggling! Dad barely walks, you cant use your left hand properly!
We manage. The important thing is youre healthy, and Olivers alright. Dont worry about us.
Imogen leaned into her mum and sobbed. Im exhausted. Tired of his attitude. Tired of being second. Tired that his mum matters more than my parents.
Shh, love, her mum soothed. Itll settle. Shell stay a bit, then go back.
Imogen didnt buy it.
Saturday morning, Valerie arrived with three huge suitcases. Immy, help me in! she shouted from the doorway.
Imogen quietly helped unload. Valerie surveyed the flat.
Dont you think youre living too close? You need a bigger place!
We cant afford a bigger flat yet, Imogen replied flatly.
You should earn more! Oliver, ask for that bonus at work!
Mom, it doesnt work that way, Oliver said, handing boxes to his mother.
Back then we worked for conscience, not just a paycheck! Valerie blurted, pushing Imogen away from the stove.
Imogen moved to the kitchen, started cooking a stew, while Valerie ordered Oliver around Put that there, hang that, move this. Oliver obliged, Valerie taking over the stovetop.
When Imogen asked what she was making, Valerie said, A stew? No, Oliver cant have anything greasy his livers delicate!
Its chicken, steamed.
Its still too rich. Better fish. I brought a pike, Ill show you how its done.
I can cook fish, Imogen protested.
Sure, you can, but not like this, Valerie waved her hand. Watch me.
The lunch was a battlefield of commands. After eating, Valerie retired to the armchair. Imogen washed dishes as Oliver approached from behind.
Thanks for taking my mum in, he said.
Did I have a choice? Imogen snapped.
Dont start.
Im not starting. Im stating facts. You decided, I obeyed.
You could be kinder, Oliver suggested.
Im kind, Imogen retorted. Just cold.
Olivers mothers voice drifted from the bedroom: Oliver, whats happening? Are you two fighting?
No, Mum, everythings fine, Oliver called back, trying to mask the tension.
A week later Valerie had claimed half the wardrobe, spread her belongings across the flat, and Imogen was sleeping on a pullout couch in the kitchen. Valerie rose early, clanged dishes, made a greasy breakfast Imogen refused, then blared the telly at full volume. She lectured Imogen on everything how to mop, how to wash, how to dress.
Imogen endured, doing as she always had. Valerie complained to Oliver, who scolded Imogen.
Why cant you listen to my mum? She wants to help!
I dont need her help!
Youre rude and ungrateful!
Arguments became daily. Imogen felt herself draining work, house, motherinlaw, husband, everything pressing down.
One evening she sat at the kitchen table, tallying expenses. Money wouldnt stretch to the next payday. She needed medicine for Dad, payment for the neighbour who helped her parents, and the usual bills.
Valerie burst in. Immy, I need new slippers. These are tight. Can you spare some cash?
I have nothing extra, Imogen said.
How can that be? Oliver got paid this week!
Olivers salary goes to the mortgage and food.
What about yours?
My pay covers my parents meds, the bills, everything.
Your parents! Always you! Nothing for your motherinlaw!
Valerie snapped, stormed out, then complained to Oliver: She refused! I asked for money for slippers and she said no!
Oliver stormed into the kitchen, face red. You really turned down my mothers request for slippers?
I have no spare money!
What about the money you spend on your own parents?
My parents are ill! They need medicine!
My mother is ill too! She needs slippers! Give her something!
Give it yourself! Shes your mum!
I dont have any!
They both dont!
They shouted, while Valerie watched smugly from the doorway.
Imogen saw the whole scene from a new angle: a motherinlaw manipulating her son, a husband blind to it, and herself, cornered.
Thats enough, she said quietly.
Whats enough? Oliver asked, bewildered.
Everything. Im done with this. Done being a servant. Done that my parents mean nothing to you.
Imogen, stop being dramatic!
Its not drama. Its a decision. Im leaving.
Oliver froze.
Where to?
To my parents. Ill live with them. If you dont need my help here, fine.
Youve lost your mind!
No, Ive made a choice. You two can manage without me.
She moved to the bedroom, began packing. Oliver followed her.
Imogen, stop! You cant just walk out!
I can, and I am.
What about me?
Youll manage. Your mum will cook, clean, wash, iron.
But I love you!
Imogen halted, looked straight into his eyes.
If you loved me, you wouldnt put your mothers wishes above my needs. Youd remember Dads birthday next week, youd ask if he needed help, youd suggest a visit.
Oliver was silent.
Im tired of being alone in this marriage, tired of carrying everything. I want to care for those who actually value my care.
She zipped her suitcase, grabbed her bag.
Imogen, wait! Lets talk!
Its too late. It should have been earlier.
She walked out. Valerie stood in the hallway.
You leaving? Fine then. Oliver will be better off without you.
Imogen stopped. Youve won, Valerie. Youve taken my husband. I dont envy you. Living in a cramped flat with a motherson duo isnt exactly bliss.
She shut the door.
Outside it was cold, snow falling. She hailed a cab, headed for the train station, bought a bus ticket to the village.
She arrived late, the house silent. She slipped off her shoes, collapsed onto the worn sofa in the lounge.
Morning found the smell of pancakes. Her mum was at the stove.
Immy! How are you? her mum beamed. Youre staying for good?
Forever, Mum.
How about Oliver?
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 happened, Mum. Just happened.
They sat with tea, Imogen recounting the motherinlaw saga and her decision to leave.
You did the right thing, Dad said. You cant put up with that.
But I still love him, she whispered.
Love isnt about tolerating humiliation. Love is respect. He didnt give you that.
She nodded. She got a job at the village library modest pay but enough. She helped her parents with chores, settled into rural life.
Oliver called at first, begging her to return, promising change. She was skeptical.
A month later he turned up at her gate. Can I come in?
She let him in. Her parents slipped into the garden.
I get it now. My mum was driving me mad. I sent her back home. I realised I was treating you like a secondclass citizen. Im sorry.
Why now? Imogen asked.
Because Ive been thinking. I sold the flat.
What?
I bought a threebed house. Bigger. So if you ever want your parents to move in with us, theres room.
She stared at him, halfbelieving.
Yes, its true. I realized I was wrong, that I put my mum above you. Im sorry.
Your mum?
Shes upset, but I told her she either accepts us or well see each other less. She chose to accept.
Imogen felt tears well up.
So youre coming back? Oliver asked.
She looked at his earnest face, his hands still dirty from gardening.
Ill come back, but on one condition were equals. My parents are as important as your mum. My opinion matters as much as yours.
I agree. I promise.
They embraced on the old garden bench.
There would still be work rebuilding trust, balancing families. But they could manage. The key was respect, not one side dominating.
Valerie did indeed show up a week later, apologised to Imogens parents, even helped her mum with the garden.
Miracles, perhaps, or just a son finally growing up and learning to talk straight.
Imogen moved back to the city in a new threebedAnd as they all gathered around the freshly baked apple crumble, the lingering scent of forgiveness proved that even the most tangled families could find a sweet, shared corner of peace.
