Id just finished loading the dishwasher when I heard Jamess voice on the phone with his mum.
Did you buy that pork sausage again? I told you its dreadful!
Emma froze by the fridge, a bag of groceries in each hand. No greeting, no kiss James hadnt even pecked her when he got home from work.
Hello, love, she managed, trying to stay calm. I grabbed the one on sale. Moneys tight at the moment.
Tight? James snapped, raising his voice. Were barely scraping by, and youre blowing it on trifle!
What on earth? Emma felt a hot sting of hurt. Im only buying what we need.
James waved his hand and stalked off to the bedroom. Emma stood in the kitchen, clutching the bag handles. Theyd been married eight years, and for the past three months the fights had become a routine the cooking, the way things were put away, the spending. He had never been this fussy before.
She began to put the groceries on the shelves, hands trembling. She wanted to cry but held herself together. She still had to make dinner; Lucy would be home from school any minute, and she couldnt let her see mum in tears.
That evening they ate in silence. Lucy, a bright nineyearold, sensed the tension and kept to herself, wolfing down her soup and then asking to do her homework.
Go on, sweetheart, Emma said, planting a kiss on Lucys head.
When Lucy left, James finally spoke.
I need to visit my mum this weekend; shes not feeling well.
Alright, Emma nodded. Should I come with you?
No, Ill go alone. You stay home; theres plenty to do.
Emma wanted to argue, but she kept quiet. Over the months shed learned to swallow her protests. Once theyd talked through everything, now it felt as if a wall had risen between them.
On Saturday James left early. Emma went about the chores washing, tidying, preparing a simple lunch. The routine that used to feel ordinary now seemed a heavy lift. Anxiety nagged at her, refusing to let go.
Lucy played in her room while Emma tackled the bedroom. She opened the kitchen window for a breath of air and heard voices on the balcony. At first she assumed the neighbours were chatting, but then she recognised Jamess tone.
James was standing on the balcony of his mothers flat the one just down the hall on the same floor. At first Emma had liked how close they lived; now she wasnt so sure.
Mum, I cant take this any longer, James said, his voice sounding plaintive, unlike the way he usually spoke at home.
Son, you must be firm, replied Mrs. Clarke, his mother. A woman needs to know her place.
Emma froze. She knew she shouldnt eavesdrop, but she couldnt turn away from the window.
She doesnt understand a word, James continued. I tell her one thing, she does another.
Exactly, Mrs. Clarke interjected. Youre too soft with her. You need to keep her in a firm grip. Ive always said that.
I cant keep shouting at her all the time, James protested.
Then be stricter. Let her feel youre the head of the house, otherwise shell get out of hand.
A shiver ran down Emmas spine. Out of hand? Shed been working from sunrise to midnight, cooking, cleaning, raising Lucy, and even parttime at the town library to help the family finances. That wasnt out of hand.
Im trying, Mum, James sighed. But sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Pity wont help, Mrs. Clarke told him sternly. Youre the man, the familys pillar. If youre soft, shell sit on your neck. All women are like that.
Not all, James muttered.
All! I raised you well, youre kind and caring, but in a marriage that softness is a weakness. You must keep your wife in check.
Emma stepped back from the window, her legs wobbling. She slipped onto the bed, the noise in her head like a vacuum cleaner turning on.
It wasnt James who had changed; it was Mrs. Clarkes influence. Four months earlier shed stayed with them for a week, and after that James became a different man.
Emma recalled how hed started visiting his mother more often, each trip leaving him colder and more demanding. He began nitpicking the little things that never bothered him before.
Mom, are you crying? Lucy asked, standing in the doorway with a frightened face.
Tears slipped down Emmas cheeks before she could stop them. She dabbed them quickly.
No, love, just a little itch in my eyes. Probably dust.
Really?
Really, Emma forced a smile. Go on and play. Ill have lunch ready soon.
When Lucy left, Emma sat on the bed again. What now? Confront James? Admit shed eavesdropped? That would spark another fight; hed accuse her of spying and pull further away.
Stay silent? How could she live knowing his mother was steering him against her?
The rest of the day passed in a fog. Emma prepared lunch without feeling any taste. She talked to Lucy but barely heard what her daughter said.
James came home that evening, tossed his keys onto the hall table and asked, Dinner ready?
Yes, Ill heat it up, Emma replied, putting a pan on the stove. Her hands moved on autopilot while Mrs. Clarkes words replayed: Keep her in a firm grip, Out of hand, Pity wont help.
Whats wrong? James asked, sitting down. You seem off.
Nothing, just tired, Emma said, placing a plate before him.
He grimaced. Here we go again, always tired. What do you do all day, just sit at home?
I dont just sit, Emma snapped softly. I work at the library.
Library, half a job, bringing home pennies.
At least I bring something in. You never stopped me from working.
He didnt answer, his face turning sour. Emma clenched her teeth, reminding herself not to let it turn into a shouting match, not in front of Lucy.
Later, after Lucy was asleep, Emma lingered at the kitchen table with a cup of cooling tea while James watched television in the living room. They were strangers sharing a flat.
She remembered how they first met, both twentythree. Shed been a shop assistant in a bookshop; hed walked in looking for a gift for a friend. Theyd chatted, gone for coffee, then dates, laughter. Hed been attentive, gentle, caring.
Even back then Mrs. Clarke had made her feelings clear that she didnt like Emma, calling her a plain girl with no education. James had brushed it off, saying he loved Emma and that was enough.
Theyd married despite his mothers disapproval, had Lucy, and the early years were hard but happy. Theyd coped with sleepless nights, child illnesses, and a tight budget. James had been a true rock.
Then Mrs. Clarke began visiting more often, calling James several times a day, inviting him over. He started going over and over.
The next day Emma decided to speak with the motherinlaw, not to argue but to have a calm womantowoman chat. She knocked on Mrs. Clarkes door. The older woman opened, a look of surprise flickering across her face.
Ah, its you. Come in, she said, stepping aside.
The flat was furnished with wellworn but decent pieces, lace doilies on the sideboard, pictures of James at various ages on the walls none of Emma or Lucy.
Would you like some tea? Mrs. Clarke asked.
No, thanks. Ill be brief.
They sat at the kitchen table. Mrs. Clarke watched Emma intently.
I wanted to talk about us and James, Emma began. Youve probably noticed things havent been smooth lately.
Mrs. Clarke nodded. James has told me.
Thats why Im here. Could you perhaps stop meddling in our marriage?
Mrs. Clarke raised an eyebrow. Meddling? Hes my son. I have every right to be interested in his life.
Interest, yes. But not steering him against me.
What do you mean? Mrs. Clarkes voice hardened.
I heard your conversation on the balcony yesterday.
Silence fell. Mrs. Clarkes face went pale, then flushed.
You eavesdropped?
I didnt mean to. I was just airing the room and heard you say I should be kept in a firm grip.
And what of it? Mrs. Clarke straightened. I was speaking the truth. Youre letting yourself go, as I said.
I work from dawn till dusk! I look after the family, raise Lucy, and I still do parttime at the library. Is that letting myself go?
Yes? Then why is the house always a mess? Why is James so thin? Why cant you cook properly? And that library job a womans place is at the stove.
We dont live in the nineteenth century! Emma snapped, feeling anger flare.
Thats why families fall apart now, Mrs. Clarke declared. Women forget their purpose, want careers, independence, leaving unhappy husbands and neglected children.
Lucy isnt neglected! I give her all my time! Emma protested.
Thats nonsense. Ive seen how you rush around, never calm. A child needs a steady mother.
Emma saw the conversation had hit a dead end. She stood up.
Fine. Know this: I wont give up. This is my family and Ill fight for it, she said.
Mrs. Clarke smirked. Remember, James is my son. Hell always listen to me, not you.
Emma left the flat, tears finally spilling as she walked back to her own home. She let them fall in the kitchen, then sat down and sobbed until her cheeks were raw.
That night James returned, looking grim.
Were you at your mothers? he asked.
Yes.
Why?
I wanted to talk.
He sighed heavily. She called, said youd been rude to her.
I wasnt rude! I just asked her not to interfere.
She isnt interfering. Shes giving advice.
James, do you not see whats happening? Shes turning you against me!
Its nonsense, he brushed off. Mum just wants me happy.
Are you happy? Emma asked, meeting his eyes. Be honest.
He looked away. Im exhausted, he admitted. Tired of the constant complaints, your tears, the arguments.
Then lets try to change things, go back to how we were, she urged.
It cant go back, he muttered, heading to the bedroom.
Emma stood in the kitchen, the first time in years truly wondering if they should stay together.
That night she couldnt sleep, staring at the ceiling while James lay on his side, the room as cold as an iceberg.
In the morning James left for work without a goodbye. Emma took Lucy to school and headed to the town library.
Her manager, Mrs. Allen, noticed her distracted look. Whats wrong? she asked.
Emma hesitated, then the words tumbled out the balcony conversation, the visits to his mother, Jamess change.
Mrs. Allen listened quietly. Men are often more impressionable than they admit, especially by their mothers. Your James is a mothers boy, plain as day.
But that wasnt always the case!
Before your mother moved in next door, you both lived independently. Now she can influence him constantly, and shes doing it.
What should I do?
First, dont give up. Then try to win James back to the way you were. And lastly, think about yourself can you keep fighting for a man who wont fight for you?
Those words lodged in Emmas mind. She spent the day recalling their first dates, the way James used to bring flowers, his gentle compliments, the night they held Lucy together in the delivery room. Somewhere inside that cold man still lived the James she loved. She just needed to reach him.
That evening she made his favourite dish roast potatoes with mushrooms set the table nicely, lit a few candles.
James walked in, stopped at the doorway, and said, Whats this?
Dinner, Emma said, smiling. Shall we eat together like before?
He sat hesitantly. She served him a portion, poured him tea.
Remember that summer when we went to the lake? You almost drowned trying to show you could swim, she asked.
James chuckled. How could I forget? You scolded me for an hour afterwards.
Because I was scared youd be gone, she admitted. I loved you then, and I still do.
They talked a little about the past. James even managed a few smiles. Hope flickered.
Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
Mum, he said, heading into the hallway.
Emma caught fragments of his voice. Yes, Mum No, its fine I understand
When he returned, his face was set again. I need to go to my mum. Shes feeling poorly.
Now? Its already evening.
Its urgent.
He left without finishing his meal. Emma sat at the table, the candles guttering, tears slipping into the potatoes, but she didnt wipe them away.
Lucy entered, rubbing her eyes. Mum, why are you crying?
Just because, love. Go to bed, Emma replied.
Did you argue with dad?
No, everythings fine.
Lucy, wise beyond her years, hugged her. Dont cry. I love you.
I love you too, darling, Emma whispered, holding her close.
James returned late that night. Emma waited, heart thudding.
Hows mum? she asked.
Her blood pressure spiked, he said.
James, we need to talk. Seriously, Emma demanded.
Not now. Im exhausted.
When then? We barely speak at all!
Tomorrow. Well talk tomorrow, he promised.
But tomorrow never came. James went to work early, returned late, spent weekends at his mothers, and kept finding excuses.
Emma realised she couldnt keep living on hope. She typed a long message to James, pouring out her love, her exhaustion, the way his mother was tearing their family apart, and that something had to change or theyd lose each other.
He read it but didnt answer. That evening he came home, brooding.
I read your note, he said. Youre dramatising everything.
Dramatising? James, we cant even have a normal conversation! You pick fights over everything! Were strangers now.
Because you wont change! 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!
Absolute nonsense! Mum only wants the best for us!
Then why does every talk with her leave you a different man?
James fell silent, staring at her.
Maybe I am changing. Maybe Mum is opening my eyes to things I ignored, he confessed.
What things?
That youre not the perfect wife. The house is a mess, the food is awful, youre always dissatisfied.
Emma felt something snap inside. He truly saw only her flaws.
Fine, she said quietly. If thats how you feel, perhaps you should look for a perfect wife.
James paled. What are you saying?
Im saying Im tired. Im tired of fighting, of constantly defending myself. If Im that bad, why am I still here?
Dont be foolish.
Its not foolish, its reality, Emma replied, standing. Think about it. Im going to bed.
She slipped into the bedroom, closed the door, and felt a weight lift from her shoulders finally speaking her truth.
The next morning James left for work without a word. Emma took Lucy to school and visited her parents in the countryside, three hours away by train. Her mother, delighted, welcomed them.
Whats happened? her mother asked.
Later, Emma whispered.
That night, after Lucy was asleep, Emma told her parents everything. Her father listened, his face growing stern.
We should go and talk to that lad, he muttered.
No, Dad, its our problem.
Your mothers right youre our daughter, so were involved.
Emma managed a smile through tears, grateful for her parents support.
She stayed with them for three days, off the grid, no phone, no worries. She walked with Lucy, helped her mother with chores, chatted with her father, and let herself rest.
On the fourth day she finally checked her phone. Thirty missed calls from James, a slew of messages angry at first, then increasingly bewildered.
Where are you?
Why arent you answering?
Im worried!
Please let us know youre okay.
Emma, Im sorry. We need to talk.
The last one had arrived an hour ago. I miss you, Lucy, and you. Come home, please.
Emma dialled his number. He answered after one ring.
Emma! Thank God! Where are you?
At my parents place. Alls fine.
Why didnt you reply? Ive been looking everywhere!
I needed time to think. You too.
A pause stretched between them.
Ive thought a lot, James said quietly. I see now youre right. Mum has been pushing me against you, and I refused to admit it.
Emmas heartWe vowed to rebuild our marriage together, free from her mothers meddling, and finally let love guide us forward.
