Emma, listen. My mum needs a hand: the balcony windows have to be washed, she cant do it herself. And we need to stock up on groceries for the week, a decent list. Can you go today?
Harry steps into the kitchen in his snug joggers and a crumpled tee, radiating that laidback weekend vibe. He reaches for the tap, fills his glass, barely noticing his wife. Emma sits at the small table by the window, sipping her morning coffee. Sunlight darts across the tablecloth in playful patterns, but her eyes are fixed inward.
It isnt the first time shes been asked for this sort of favour. It started with tiny errands: Emma, could you pass Mum the bread? Can you pop over with the meds? Then it escalated into regular trips across town with heavy bags, deep cleans at his mothers house, even small repairs that Mrs. Thompson insists only someone young and spry can manage. Harry rarely shows up for his own mother; he always has an excusework, fatigue, or simply dont feel like it. Youve got the day off, he says, and Emma sighs, drags the luggage, washes, fixes, and tolerates his mothers complaints about health, prices, neighbours, and the fact that poor Harry gets stuck with all this.
Harry, Emma says, her voice unusually calm but edged with steel, forcing him to turn his head. Ive told you before. Im your wife, not a personal assistant for your mum, and certainly not a free housekeeper. If Mrs. Thompson needs serious help, why dont you go yourself? You have the day off, remember? Or have you forgotten?
Harry blinks, bewildered. Usually these talks end with Emma conceding after a few pleas.
Well I thought youd he stammers, frowning. Its not that hard! Womens workclean the windows, buy the groceries Youre better at it than I am.
Emmas lips curl into a warning smile.
Womens work? she repeats sarcastically. So lugging fivekilogram bags of potatoes up to the seventh floor and wiping grime off windows is now exclusively a womans duty? And youll stay at home, conserving energy, so you can plonk yourself on the sofa later?
Tension spikes. Harry slams his glass onto the counter, his face flushing.
Whats your problem? he snaps. Im just asking! You know mum is alone, getting old, its tough for her! Instead of helping you give a tantrum!
Tantrum? Emma raises an eyebrow. You call my refusal to be a servant a tantrum? Listen carefully.
What else? he asks.
Im your wife, not a errandgirl! If your mum needs help, you should be the one to go, she says. Shes your mother. If she truly struggles, its your duty as a son to assist. Or do you think a son should dump everything on his wife? Im not asking you to help my motherthats my business, and Ill handle it. So, love, grab the list, a rag, a bucket, and head to your mums. Use my gloves if you dont have any. Ill take care of my own tasks. No more of these requests will be accepted. Clear?
Harry stares at her as if she were an alien. The familiar hierarchy shatters. Emma, who usually yields, now stands firm, cold and final.
You realise what youre saying? Thats disrespect to my mother! he raises his voice, stepping forward.
Emma doesnt flinch.
No, Harry. Its respect for yourself. Basic selfrespect. If you cant see that, thats your problem.
She rises, walks calmly around the table, and exits the kitchen, leaving him alone amid the sundappled spots, a broken sense of comfort, and a sudden thought: life isnt as cosy as it seemed.
Harry follows her into the sitting room where Emma has deliberately perched with a book. He stops in the doorway, fists clenched, his face burning.
You just decided to refuse outright? he hisses. Think you can ignore my pleas? My mother? Is that acceptable for a wife?
Emma slowly sets the book down.
Do you think its normal, Harry, to shift a sons responsibilities onto his wife? she asks, voice steady. You talk about my mother, yet forget shes yours. She has a sonan adult, healthy, with a day off. Why does he send you instead of helping himself, while you plan to lounge on the couch?
Because it never bothered anyone before! Harry bursts, lunging into the room. You always helped, and everything was fine! What changed? Did you get a crown or start thinking youre special?
It changed because I cant keep doing it, Emma replies, her tone void of anger, only deep, longstanding fatigue. Im tired of being the convenient helper for both of you, not a fullfledged person. Im exhausted when my time, energy, and wishes are ignored. You say you always agreed. Have you ever considered what it cost me? How many times I sacrificed my plans, my rest, even my health, just to please you and your mother?
Harry scoffs, waving his hand like swatting a fly.
So now youre the martyr again? No one forced you. You chose it, so it must have been comfortable for you!
Emma chuckles bitterly. I went along because I wanted peace at home, hoping youd notice how much I do. But you took it for granted, as if Im obliged to serve all your relatives. And guess what? My mum never asked you to come over and help with windows or the garden. She knows we have our own life. Your mum, however, treats me like a free resource you can tap whenever you like.
Dont compare them! Harry roars, face twisted with rage. My mother always looked out for us! And now, when she asks for help, you act like a selfish brat! Its pure egoism!
And who will think of me if I dont? Emma looks him straight in the eyes, unflinching. You? The man who never notices how I look after your mother? Or Mrs. Thompson, who after a tidyup starts bragging about the neighbours daughterinlaw baking pies daily? No, Harry. This chapter ends. I will not be a doormat everyone steps on, hiding behind obligation and help to justify exploitation.
The pressure mounts. Harry feels his control slipping. The authority hes accustomed tohis right to direct, to influencecrumbles before his eyes. Hes used to Emma being soft, compliant. Now she stands cold, voice firm, pulling him out of his comfort zone.
Youre ungrateful! he gasps. Were here for you, and you you dont value us! You dont care about our feelings!
Feelings? Emma laughs, but theres no mirth. When was the last time you asked about mine, Harry? After a whole day at your mothers, you only said, Alright, done? Good job. My needs? A moment of rest, simple human attention? Never. Its easier to have a wife who silently does everything you command.
Harry paces like a cornered animal. His usual pressure tactics, accusations, and guilt trips fall flat, only fueling his anger.
Fine, he finally pants. If you wont cooperate, Ill bring my mother into this.
He pulls out his phone, dials quickly. Emma sits composed, a faint hint of contempt on her face. She knows his next movecalling the heavy artillery of his mother.
A disgruntled voice of Mrs. Thompson crackles through.
Harry, why are you calling so early? Im just trying not to worry myself.
Mom, can you believe whats happening? I asked Emma to go to you, wash the windows, get the groceries, like always. She threw a fit! She says youre my mother, I should go myself, and shes not a runnergirl! Can you imagine?
Silence hangs thick. Emma smirks inwardly, aware of the drama her mother loves to stir.
What what? Mrs. Thompson finally says, feigning surprise.
Yes, Mum, exactly that! Harry continues. She says youre my mother, not hers, and that I must look after you, not the other way round. Shes being ridiculous! Im shocked!
Honestly, Harry, the younger generation Mrs. Thompson sighs dramatically. I thought my daughterinlaw would be like family but she isnt
Hand me the phone, Emma says evenly.
Harry looks at her, a triumphant glint in his eyes.
Scared? Want to apologise to Mum?
Hand it over, she repeats, voice cold enough to make him shrink. He passes the handset, flipping it to speaker.
Mrs. Thompson, good afternoon, Emma begins, businesslike. I heard your conversation and want to clarify.
Sweetie, whats happening with you and Harry? He looks upset why are you treating me like this? Were a family.
Mrs. Thompson, if you truly need help with physically demanding tasks like window washing and carrying groceries, you should address your son directly, Emma says firmly. He has the day off, hes healthy, and its his duty as a son to look after his mother. I am his wife, not your housekeeper.
Emma, dear, youre the one who runs the house Mrs. Thompson starts, irritation creeping in. Harrys a man, he has other responsibilities. He provides for the family
I work too, Mrs. Thompson, Emma cuts in. My day off is just as valuable. Im not going to do regular chores for your family for free. If cleaning is tough, you could hire a cleaning service. Thats a realistic solution.
A cleaning service?! Mrs. Thompson exclaims. Let strangers into my home? People will think Ive forgotten my son and daughterinlaw!
I dont care what strangers think, Emma replies resolutely. I care about my right to a life and rest. I will no longer let myself be manipulated behind the excuse of age or imagined frailty. If Harry is ashamed to help his mother or thinks it beneath him, thats his problem, not mine.
Silence returns, broken only by Mrs. Thompsons rough breathing.
So thats it? she finally hisses, her tone stripped of softness, now cold anger. You think you can dictate who runs this house? Fine, Emma I wont let this slide. If youre against the family, against order, against respect for elders, Ill come over and sort it out myself. Well have a serious talk. Youll learn how to behave.
She slams the line. Harry flashes a victorious look at Emma, expecting her to crumble. She simply places the phone on the table, eyes steady. Shes ready. This is only the beginning.
Forty minutes later a sharp, insistent knocking rattles the front door, as if the door itself wants to be ripped from its hinges. Harry, who has been pacing nervously, darts to answer. Emma remains seated, her composure unshaken though her hands tremble inside. Determination steels hershe will not show weakness.
Mum! At last! You have no idea what just happened! Harry yells from the hallway, outrage blazing.
Mrs. Thompson storms into the lounge like a gale, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering, her scarf halffallen from her shoulder. She looks ready for battle.
Come here, girl! she shouts, lurching toward Emma, who rises calmly to meet her. How dare you? How can you command my son? How dare you speak to me like that?
Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson, Emma replies, maintaining politeness that only fuels the motherinlaws fury. Im glad youre here. Now we can talk calmly, without misunderstandings.
Talk? Mrs. Thompson screeches. I have nothing to discuss with a woman who insults her own sons mother! We took you into the family, and you turn out to be a snake! Where was Harry when you were spouting all this?
He was right here, Mum! Harry interjects. He says I should wash your windows myself! That its not Emmas job! Can you believe that?
I didnt just say that, Harry, Emma says evenly. I said the truth. Youre his mother, so youre the one he should care for. If you think your wife should do it for you, youre either lazy or not a man at all.
How dare you? Mrs. Thompson gasps, her voice shaking. My son works! Hes exhausted! And you sit at home doing nothing!
I work too, Mrs. Thompson, Emmas voice hardens. I earn at least as much as your son. My home isnt a free service for your family. You raised a man who cant make a decision without you. Im tired of being the perpetual helper and scapegoat in this system.
Her words land like blows. Harry is silenced, unsure what to say. His mother trembles with rage.
I’ve given him everything! Sleepless nights! And you come here to criticize me?
Exactly because you gave him everything, he remains dependent, Emma retorts. He should have grown up by now. Instead you keep him on a short leash. I will no longer be part of this family theatre.
Harry finally erupts.
Enough! he shouts, stepping forward. Youve crossed every line! My mother is a saint, and if you dont like it, you can leave! I choose my mother! Shes the only one I have, and there are plenty like you!
His words hit the final nail. Emma fixes him with a long, icy stare.
Fine, Harry, she says softly but firmly. Youve made your choice. Now I know what youre worth. I want nothing to do with you or your mother. Pack your things, or just go back to her. I dont care. This nightmare ends here.
She turns away, signaling the conversation is over. Behind her, the frantic cries of mother and son continue, but Emma no longer listens. She looks out the window at the new day beginning. A massive weight has lifted from her shoulders. Ahead lies uncertainty, but also freedom. Behind her remain two people who have lost more than a daughterinlaw or a wifetheyve lost any chance of a normal life, forever trapped in their own toxic loop.
