Your mum will stay with us; your parents can remain in the village, I said, trying to sound reasonable.
You spent £400 on what? A kitchen unit? Poppy Whitmores eyes widened.
I slammed the receipt onto the table so hard the plates jumped. She flinched, but forced herself to stay calm.
The cupboard. The old one had finally fallen apart the door fell off, the worktop was covered in stains. I tried to explain.
Four hundred pounds! We agreed that any big purchase would be discussed first! she snapped.
We did talk about it! I told you a month ago, and you said, Look for yourself!
I never said you could splurge like that!
How much, in your opinion, does a decent kitchen cost? Ten pounds? That was the cheapest I could find! I muttered, running a hand through my hair.
Every penny mattered now. Wed been saving for a car.
We were saving, and we will save. But I need a place to cook now, not when we finally get the car.
You could have waited!
Wait? Do you expect us to cook on two burners for another six months because the rest are broken? I snapped, turning back to her.
You know what? If you could actually save, wed already have a car and a bigger flat!
A lump rose in her throat.
I dont know how to save? I count every pound to make it to payday, I buy the cheapest food and Ive been wearing the same coat for three years!
Thats it, youre playing the victim again!
Im not a victim! Im just stating facts! she shot back, tears gathering but she held them back. No crying, no showing weakness.
My phone rang. I glanced at the screen, saw my mothers name, and hurried out of the kitchen.
Poppy stayed behind, sat at the table and rested her head on her hands. What had happened to us? Wed never quarried over money before. Wed never fought this often.
She remembered how wed first met. Id gone to a dental clinic where she worked as a receptionist. While waiting for my appointment, we struck up a conversation. She invited me for coffee, and half a year later shed said yes.
She was twentysix, I was twentyeight. Both of us working, sharing a flat, then taking on a mortgage and buying a modest onebedroom house on the edge of town. Small, but ours.
Life was decent not lavish, but never short of basics. Arguments were rare and usually about trivial things. Poppy thought we were fine.
Then things started to shift. I became irritable, nitpicking, constantly bringing up money and saving. I earned a decent salary as a senior manager at a large firm, but I was never satisfied. She earned less, tried to help at home, cooked, and saved wherever she could. Yet anything she did seemed to be wrong: the way she cooked, the way she cleaned, the little expenses she allowed herself.
I returned to the kitchen, my expression serious.
Poppy, we need to talk.
Im listening.
My mum called. Her healths deteriorating blood pressure spikes, hearts weak. She cant manage on her own.
And?
Ive decided shell move in with us until she gets better.
She stared at me.
Thomas, we only have a onebedroom flat. Where will she stay?
On the sofa in the living room. Well shift the bed to the kitchen and use a folding cot.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother. I cant leave her alone like that.
Im not saying we should leave her, but could we hire a carer? Or
A carer costs money, the kind we dont have because of your spending, I retorted.
She clenched her fists under the table.
Fine. What about my parents? Theyre also about seventy, my dad struggles with chores, my mum cant walk after her stroke.
Your parents live in the village. They have a house, a garden. Theyre fine there.
Theyre not! I go every week to help chop wood, fetch water, tidy up!
Keep doing that. But my mum will be here.
Why is your mum staying here while my parents have to suffer in the village?
I looked at her coldly.
Because my mum is alone. Your parents have each other, so its easier for them. And she needs city doctors. Your parents are used to village life.
Used to village life? Thomas, do you hear yourself?
I hear. Mum will live with us, your parents can stay in the village. Thats my decision.
She stood up.
You decided, not we. No discussion.
Im the head of the household.
The head of the household who spends money on fishing gear and a new rod, but wont even buy a proper kitchen set for his wife! she laughed bitterly.
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! Its hard for them, and you never even offer to help! You never go with me, never ask if they need anything!
I grabbed the car keys.
Im fed up. 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 stormed out.
Poppy was left alone, collapsed onto the kitchen floor and wept silently. This was her flat, her decisions, her mother. And she? Just a servant? A shadow forced to accept every whim?
She wiped her tears, grabbed the phone and dialed her parents.
Hello, love! her mothers frail voice answered instantly.
Mum, how are you?
Nothing much, just chopping wood, keeping the stove going. Its a cold winter this year.
Mum, could you move to the city? Ill find a place to rent
Dont be silly, darling! Weve lived here our whole lives. And where would I get the money for a rented flat?
Ill manage somehow.
Dont worry. You already help us enough. Just dont overwork yourself.
Poppy swallowed another wave of tears.
Ill be there on Sunday with groceries.
Come quickly, love. Well be glad to see you. The call ended.
Her parents never complained, always saying theyd manage. Yet Poppy knew how hard their life was an old house, coal heating, water fetched from a communal tap, her dad, seventythree, barely walking after a heart operation, her mum, poststroke, unable to use her left hand. Still, they never wanted to be a burden.
My motherinlaw, Valerie Stevens, lived in a twobedroom flat in the city. She was sixtyfive, in decent health, but still independent. I was the only son, and she called me ten times a day, offering advice on everything from clothing to where to shop. I obeyed without question.
At first Poppy put up with it. Then she started to protest, but I always sided with my mum, claiming she only wanted what was best for us.
Now Valerie was moving in with us, into our tiny flat, and Poppy was expected to look after her, cook, clean, while her own parents were left to the village.
One evening, after a heated argument, I returned to the kitchen, my face set.
Poppy, we need to talk.
Im listening.
My mother called. Shes ill and cant live alone. Shell stay with us until she recovers.
She stared at me, eyes flashing.
The flat is only one bedroom. Where will she sleep?
Well put a sofa in the living room, move the bed to the kitchen, and use a folding cot for her.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother. I cant leave her alone.
Im not saying we should leave her, but could we hire a carer? Or
A carer costs money, the kind we dont have because of your spending, I snapped.
She clenched her fists under the table.
Fine. What about my parents? Theyre also about seventy, my dad struggles with chores, my mum cant walk after her stroke.
Your parents live in the village. They have a house, a garden. Theyre fine there.
Theyre not! I go every week to help chop wood, fetch water, tidy up!
Keep doing that. But my mum will be here.
Why is your mum staying here while my parents have to suffer in the village?
I looked at her coldly.
Because my mum is alone. Your parents have each other, so its easier for them. And she needs city doctors. Your parents are used to village life.
Used to village life? Thomas, do you hear yourself?
I hear. Mum will live with us, your parents can stay in the village. Thats my decision.
She rose, voice shaking.
You decided, not we. No discussion.
Im the head of the household.
The head of the household who spends money on fishing gear and a new rod, but wont even buy a proper kitchen set for his wife! she laughed bitterly.
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! Its hard for them, and you never even offer to help! You never go with me, never ask if they need anything!
I grabbed the car keys.
Im fed up. 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 stormed out.
Poppy was left alone, collapsed onto the kitchen floor and wept silently. This was her flat, her decisions, her mother. And she? Just a servant? A shadow forced to accept every whim?
She wiped her tears, grabbed the phone and dialed her parents.
Hello, love! her mothers frail voice answered instantly.
Mum, how are you?
Nothing much, just chopping wood, keeping the stove going. Its a cold winter this year.
Mum, could you move to the city? Ill find a place to rent
Dont be silly, darling! Weve lived here our whole lives. And where would I get the money for a rented flat?
Ill manage somehow.
Dont worry. You already help us enough. Just dont overwork yourself.
Poppy swallowed another wave of tears.
Ill be there on Sunday with groceries.
Come quickly, love. Well be glad to see you. The call ended.
Her parents never complained, always saying theyd manage. Yet Poppy knew how hard their life was an old house, coal heating, water fetched from a communal tap, her dad, seventythree, barely walking after a heart operation, her mum, poststroke, unable to use her left hand. Still, they never wanted to be a burden.
Valerie Stevens lived in a twobedroom flat in the city. She was sixtyfive, in decent health, but still independent. I was the only son, and she called me ten times a day, offering advice on everything from clothing to where to shop. I obeyed without question.
At first Poppy put up with it. Then she started to protest, but I always sided with my mum, claiming she only wanted what was best for us.
Now Valerie was moving in with us, into our tiny flat, and Poppy was expected to look after her, cook, clean, while her own parents were left to the village.
One evening, after a heated argument, I returned to the kitchen, my face set.
Poppy, we need to talk.
Im listening.
My mother called. Shes ill and cant live alone. Shell stay with us until she recovers.
She stared at me, eyes flashing.
The flat is only one bedroom. Where will she sleep?
Well put a sofa in the living room, move the bed to the kitchen, and use a folding cot for her.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother. I cant leave her alone.
Im not saying we should leave her, but could we hire a carer? Or
A carer costs money, the kind we dont have because of your spending, I snapped.
She clenched her fists under the table.
Fine. What about my parents? Theyre also about seventy, my dad struggles with chores, my mum cant walk after her stroke.
Your parents live in the village. They have a house, a garden. Theyre fine there.
Theyre not! I go every week to help chop wood, fetch water, tidy up!
Keep doing that. But my mum will be here.
Why is your mum staying here while my parents have to suffer in the village?
I looked at her coldly.
Because my mum is alone. Your parents have each other, so its easier for them. And she needs city doctors. Your parents are used to village life.
Used to village life? Thomas, do you hear yourself?
I hear. Mum will live with us, your parents can stay in the village. Thats my decision.
She rose, voice shaking.
You decided, not we. No discussion.
Im the head of the household.
The head of the household who spends money on fishing gear and a new rod, but wont even buy a proper kitchen set for his wife! she laughed bitterly.
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! Its hard for them, and you never even offer to help! You never go with me, never ask if they need anything!
I grabbed the car keys.
Im fed up. 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 stormed out.
She sat on the kitchen floor, tears finally breaking free, and whispered, This is my home, my decision, my mother and I? Just a servant? She wiped her eyes, dialed her parents again.
Hello, love! her mother answered.
Mum, Im coming Sunday, bringing food.
Wonderful, dear. Well be ready for you. The line clicked shut.
The next day Valerie arrived with three huge suitcases.
Poppy, could you help with the luggage? she called from the doorway.
Silently, Poppy lifted the bags. Valerie surveyed the tiny flat.
Dont you think this place is cramped? You should get a bigger house!
We cant afford a bigger place right now, Poppy replied curtly.
You need to earn more! Ask for a bonus at work! Valerie urged, as I helped unpack.
Mom, thats not how it works, I muttered.
Back in my day we worked for pride, not just a paycheck! Valerie declared, shoving a tray of fish onto the counter.
Poppy moved to the stove, started boiling a stew, while Valerie barked orders from the doorway where to put the kettle, where to hang the towels.
When she suggested swapping the chicken for cod, Poppy bristled, I can cook fish myself.
Valerie waved her hand dismissively, You can, but not like me.
The lunch passed in a tense silence. Afterward, Valerie rested on the sofa, and I approached her.
Thanks for staying, I said.
Did I have a choice? she snapped.
Dont start, I warned.
She snapped back, Im just stating facts. You decided, Im complying.
I told her, You could be kinder.
She retorted, Im polite.
Youre cold. Mom can feel it.
She turned to me, Your mother has taken our bedroom, pushed me out of the kitchen, criticised my cooking, and you expect me to be friendly?
Shes ill! I shouted.
Shes a dictator! And you let her! I yelled.
Enough! I roared. Shes my mother! I wont let you insult her!
Im not insulting, Im telling the truth! I shouted.
From the bedroom came Valeries voice, Thomas, whats happening? Are you fighting?
No, Mum, everythings fine, I called back, forcing a smile.
Weeks passed. Valerie settled in, claimed half the wardrobe, spread her belongings across the flat. Poppy and I slept on a folding cot in the kitchen, my back aching from the cramped position.
Every morning Valerie would burst into the kitchen, shouting how I washed the floor wrong, how I set the washing machine too low, how I dressed poorly. Poppy endured, doing exactly as shed always done, while Valerie complained to me. I wouldEventually, Poppy gathered her courage, left the cramped flat, and built a new life where both her love and her parents were finally respected.
