Your place is the kitchen, not the family portrait, my sisterinlaw quipped, lowering the camera.
Did you deliberately oversalt the banger soup, or are you just a terrible cook? my motherinlaws voice drifted in, each word ringing in Emmas ears.
I followed your recipe, Emma replied, trying to keep her tone steady. You gave it to me yourself.
Of course, its my fault, snorted Margaret Clarke, pushing the plate away with a theatrical flourish. Mark, are you really going to eat that?
Mark didnt even look up. He ate his soup methodically, as if nothing were wrong. My sisterinlaw, Lucy, sat opposite, smiling that familiar, smug smile that made Emmas fists clench under the table.
Mother, why are you being so harsh? Lucy finally said. Maybe shes just used to a different style of cooking. Their family does things differently.
Emma heard the tone perfectly a thinly veiled defense that only stoked the fire. Lucy always did that: gentle, smiling, but cutting.
Mark, say something, Emma snapped.
Mark lifted his eyes slowly.
What to say? The soups fine. Eat it and stop nitpicking.
See, Mum? Lucy reached for the bread. Mark likes it, so its all right.
Margaret pursed her lips but said nothing more. The lunch continued in a tense hush, broken only by the clink of spoons and Lucys occasional comments about work, a new car she planned to buy, and an upcoming holiday to Spain.
Emma mechanically cleared her plate. Three years. Three years of marriage to Mark, and three years of putting up with this. Constant remarks from Margaret, venomous jokes from Lucy, Marks silence. Shed hoped time would smooth things, that shed find a place in the family, but the longer she stayed, the more she realised shed never belong.
After the meal she cleared the table, washed the dishes, while the women drifted into the sitting room for tea. Mark slipped off to his study, citing work. From the kitchen Emma caught fragments of their conversation.
Shes trying, but shes not one of us, Margaret said.
Come on, Mum, Mark loves her. Theyre happy together.
Love, love Love fades, but chores and problems remain. Shes nothing no backbone, just a quiet mouse.
Emma clenched the sponge tighter. A quiet mouse. Shed always been that. Her parents had taught her to be unobtrusive, modest, obedient. In school she never argued with teachers; at university she endured classmates snide remarks without protest. Now, at thirtytwo, she still swallowed slights in silence.
Emma, fetch us some biscuits! Lucy shouted from the living room.
Emma wiped her hands, fetched the biscuit tin from the cupboard, and carried it to the sofa where Margaret and Lucy were scrolling through their phones.
Mum, look at this dress! Ill wear it to the party Max will go mad.
Lovely, dear. Red suits you.
Emma set the tin down and turned to leave, but Margaret stopped her.
Emma, when are you and Mark planning children? Its been three years already.
The question landed like a slap. Emma froze.
We arent ready yet.
Not ready? At your age you should be. I want grandchildren; Im not getting any younger. Stop dragging your feet.
Maybe they have their own problems, Lucy interjected. A lot of couples do these days.
What problems? Marks healthy. It must be her.
Emma felt her cheeks flush. She wanted to explain that the decision was mutual, that they wanted to get on their feet, buy a flat, but the words stuck.
Im leaving, she managed.
In the hallway she leaned against the wall, closed her eyes. Inside her, everything boiled. Weekends were the same: visiting Marks parents, feeling like a servant, cooking, cleaning, enduring remarks, while Mark stayed silent, always silent.
She slipped into the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face. She needed to hold on a little longer; soon theyd be back home, where it was easier. At their own place Mark was attentive, caring. Here, in his parents house, he became a meek boy.
Back in the living room Lucy lifted the camera.
Mum, lets get a family photo! Weve never had a proper one.
Brilliant idea! Mark, come here! Margaret called.
Mark emerged, yawning.
Whats happening?
Were taking a family picture.
Right, lets do it.
Lucy arranged everyone. She placed Margaret in an armchair, Mark beside her.
Mum, you sit here; Ill stand opposite Mark.
Emma stood aside, unsure whether to join. Lucy fiddled with the camera, muttering to herself.
Emma, may I join too? she asked timidly.
Lucy looked up, stared at Emma a long moment, then smirked.
Your place is the kitchen, not the family photo, she said, lowering the camera.
Silence fell. Emma stood frozen, disbelief raw. Margaret pretended not to hear, Mark stayed quiet.
What? Emma managed.
Just a joke, Lucy shrugged. Family photo, right? Mom, me, Mark youre not part of it.
Im Marks wife.
And what of it? Wives come and go, the family stays.
Mark, do you hear what your sister is saying?
Mark finally looked up from his shoes.
Lucy, thats enough. Emma will be in the picture.
Alright, alright, Im only teasing, Lucy waved her hand. Stand over here, on the side.
But Emmas mind was already elsewhere. She turned and walked to the hall, hands shaking as she pulled on her coat.
Emma, where are you going? Mark called after her.
Home.
But we agreed to stay for dinner.
Im not staying. Stay if you want, with your family.
Emma, stop this. Lucys just being foolish, you know that.
I know her, and your mother too. I know you.
She left the flat without a goodbye. Mark didnt follow. He stayed with his mother and sister, his real family.
Outside the wind blew on an October evening. Emma hurried, almost ran, tears blurring her vision. Hurt, scared, and terrified that things could not go on like this.
She collapsed onto the sofa at her mothers house, finally letting the tears flow. After a long sobbing she washed her face, brewed a mug of tea, and sat by the window watching the streetlights flicker.
Later that night Mark returned, slipping in quietly, ashamed.
Emma, are you awake?
She stayed silent.
Listen, why did you react like that? Lucy was just being foolish.
It wasnt a joke.
It was a clumsy comment. You know how she is always saying something halfbaked.
And you? Why do you always stay silent when they treat me like this?
Mark sat down, his face in his hands.
What can I do? Theyre my mother, my sister. I cant fight them over every little thing.
Little things? Emmas voice trembled. You call this little? They insult me and you call it nothing?
No ones insulting you! Mum just likes to control everything. Lucys always been spoiled. They dont mean it.
So I should just endure?
Dont endure, speak up. Im not forbidding you.
Emma gave a bitter smile.
Speak up, then youll blame me for upsetting your mother or sister.
Where does that even come from?
Remember six months ago when I told your mum we couldnt keep coming every weekend? You didnt speak for a week, calling me ungrateful.
Mark fell silent.
And when Lucy said she was surprised you married me, that I was a dull mouse with no beauty or brains? You laughed and said I was handy around the house.
Enough, Emma.
Its not enough, Mark snapped. Youre making a mountain out of a molehill.
Emmas voice rose. Do you think I love you? That Im just a convenient wife cooking, washing, cleaning, never arguing? Im tired of being the useful one.
Emma, what rubbish is that?
Its the truth. Your sister was right today my place is the kitchen. Thats all Im good for.
Stop! Mark stood, angry. Stop feeling sorry for yourself! Everythings fine, youre blowing this out of proportion.
Nothing? Emma shouted. They humiliate me and you stay quiet! Thats nothing?
Theyre not humiliating you! Youre just too sensitive! Have a sense of humour!
Emma rose, went to the bedroom, opened her wardrobe, and began packing. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to stay calm.
What are you doing? Mark asked from the doorway.
Leaving. To my mothers.
Because of that stupid comment?
Not just the comment. Because you dont see me, you dont hear me.
Emma, lets talk, no screaming.
Im not screaming. I just cant take it any longer. I need to think.
She zipped her bag and headed for the front door. Mark blocked her path.
You cant just walk out. Were a family.
What family, Mark? Your family is Mum and Lucy. Im a stranger here, and apparently everywhere else too.
She slipped past him and out of the flat. He didnt follow.
Her mother met her at the door, eyes wide.
Emma, love, whats happened? Why are you alone?
Can I stay with you for a while?
Of course, dear. Come in.
Her mother didnt pry. She always seemed to know when Emma needed quiet. They sat with tea, her mother chatting about neighbours, work, the small things of life. Emma listened, gradually calming.
Mum, how did you and Dad manage so many years together?
Her mother thought a moment.
In marriage, respect is key. Love can come and go, but respect must stay. Your father always respected me, considered my opinions, defended me when needed.
And if he didnt?
Then it isnt a marriage, its torment. You shouldnt be a servant in your own home.
Emma nodded. She knew it, but hearing it from her mother mattered.
Mark called the next day. She let it go to voicemail. Later a text arrived: Emma, come home. Lets talk. She didnt reply.
A week passed. Emma went to work, spent evenings with her mother, sorting her feelings. Anger faded, fatigue lingered, and the realisation settled that things could not stay as they were.
Mark turned up on Saturday, rang the doorbell. Her mother opened.
Can I speak with Emma? she asked.
Emma was called into the sitting room. Mark looked exhausted, eyes puffy, a dark circle under them.
I miss you, he said simply.
I miss you too, Emma admitted. But that doesnt change anything.
What do you want from me?
To see me. To hear me. To stand up for me when needed. To be your wife, not just the housekeeper.
Mark stayed quiet, then nodded.
I get it. I was wrong. I thought staying out of the way would help, that youd manage on your own.
But I didnt manage. I kept quiet, endured. You thought everything was fine.
Im sorry. Really sorry.
I dont need apologies. I need change.
What exactly?
Emma inhaled deeply.
I wont come to your parents every weekend. Once a month at most. And if your mum or Lucy insult me, youll step in. You wont have to defend yourself.
Deal.
And Im done being silent. Ill speak my mind. If you dont like it, tell me now.
Mark smiled, the first genuine smile of the night.
Speak. Im curious to see you when youre not quiet.
Seriously?
Seriously. I like it when youre angry, your eyes flash.
Emma laughed, a real laugh.
Ill come home. But if it happens again, Ill leave for good.
It wont happen, Mark promised firmly.
They left together. The house was empty and quiet. Emma walked through each room, feeling the space anew her home, her family, her right to respect.
A month later Mark truly changed. He asked her opinions more, and when his mother demanded a weekend visit, he said they already had plans. Margaret was annoyed but kept quiet.
When they finally visited his parents three weeks later, Emma felt steadier, more confident. The lunch went relatively smoothly. Margaret tried to critique the cooking a few times, but Mark steered the conversation elsewhere. Lucy kept her distance, a little colder than before.
After lunch, while Emma was washing up, Lucy entered the kitchen.
I wanted to apologise, she began uncertainly.
Emma turned, towel in hand.
For what?
For the comment about the photo. Mark scolded me later, said I was out of line.
You were out of line.
Lucy nodded.
Its just hard accepting that Mark now has his own family. We were always close. Suddenly its you.
I didnt steal your brother. I just love him.
I know. Im selfish, wanted everything to stay as it was.
Nothing stays the same forever. We grow, change, start our own families.
Lucy gave a sad smile.
Youre right. Im sorry, truly.
I forgive you. Just dont do it again.
Lucy agreed.
They returned to the sitting room. Margaret flipped through a magazine, Mark watched TV an ordinary family scene.
Mom, lets get a family photo, Lucy suddenly suggested. We never have one.
Margaret set the magazine aside.
Good idea.
Lucy pulled out her phone, switched to camera mode.
Emma, come stand here, next to Mark. Mum, sit in the chair. Ill stand at the edge.
Emma stepped up, Mark wrapped an arm around her shoulders. Lucy aimed the phone.
Smile! One, two, three!
Click. The picture was taken. Lucy examined the screen, nodded.
Looks great. A real family.
Emma looked at the photo. They really did look like a family, and for the first time in a long while she felt she truly belonged not a servant, not a stranger, but a full member.
On the drive home she stared out the window, reflecting on how much had changed in that month. Shed learned to speak up, to protect herself. Mark had learned to listen. Even Lucy and Margaret had grown more careful around her.
What are you thinking about? Mark asked, glancing at her.
About how sometimes you have to walk away to be heard.
I heard you. I wont lose you again.
Emma smiled. There was still work to do, but now they were truly together.
Later, over tea in their kitchen, Mark asked,
Will you stop staying quiet?
I wont. Ready?
Ready. Show me.
And Emma laughed, a genuine, heartfelt laugh, because at last she believed she had the right to be herself, to have a voice, and a place not only in the kitchen but also in the family portrait.
