“We want privacy, not your advice,” said the son, glancing at his wife.
“Emma, wheres your mum today?” asked Margaret Thompson, peering at her young daughter-in-law through thick glasses. “She promised to come help with the salads.”
“Shes busy,” Emma replied shortly, still slicing cucumbers. “Got held up at work.”
“Again?” Margaret shook her head. “What about family? When are you two planning for grandchildren? Youre not girls anymoreboth in your thirties.”
Emma tightened her grip on the knife and stayed silent. From the living room came the sound of the telly switching onAndrew had come in from the allotment where hed spent the day digging.
“Andrew, love!” Margaret called. “Come help us set the table.”
“In a minute, Mum,” he answered, but didnt move from the sofa.
Margaret sighed and began pulling the best china from the cupboard. Tomorrow, her sister and brother-in-law were visiting from Manchester, and shed planned a proper family lunch.
“Emma, did you wash those tomatoes properly?” she asked, peering into the bowl. “My stomachs delicatecant risk anything dodgy.”
“Theyre washed, Margaret,” Emma replied evenly.
“And those cucumbersyoure cutting them too thin. Men like theirs chunkier, more filling. Andrews always been like thata salad should keep you full.”
Emma paused and looked at her mother-in-law.
“Maybe you should slice them yourself, then?”
“Oh, dont be silly, dear,” Margaret flapped her hands. “Im just offering a bit of advice. Forty years in the kitchenI know a thing or two. Youre still learning.”
Andrew shuffled into the kitchen in his old slippers and a worn-out t-shirt. His hair was messy, a smudge of dirt still on his cheek.
“Hows it going, ladies?” he grinned. “Preparing a feast for the ages?”
“Trying to,” his mother nodded. “Though you might want to wash up and change. Look at the state of you!”
“Mum, Im at home,” Andrew said, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. “Just relaxing after work.”
“You should still take pride in yourself. What must your wife think, seeing you like this?”
Emma spun around sharply.
“Margaret, I love my husband however he looks. Work clothes, pyjamasdoesnt matter.”
“Of course, of course,” Margaret agreed. “But loves one thing, and standards are another. Next door, Carols son-in-law is always smart as a whiphome or work.”
“And what does Carols son-in-law do?” Andrew asked, finishing his water.
“Some office manager, isnt he? Doesnt get his hands dirty.”
“I work on a building site, Mum. Not exactly suit-and-tie territory.”
“Fair enough. But once youre home, you could tidy yourself up.”
Andrew waved her off and left. Emma kept chopping, ignoring Margarets watchful gaze.
“Another thing,” Margaret began, lowering herself onto a stool. “You two have the telly up too loud in the evenings. My rooms right next to yourskeeps me awake.”
“We dont have it loud,” Emma countered.
“You do. And you talk late, too. Last night, I couldnt sleep till midnight.”
Emma felt her face flush. They *had* stayed up late talkingbut it had been private. The telly had been on just to muffle their voices.
“Margaret, maybe you could try earplugs?” she suggested. “The chemist sells good ones.”
“Earplugs? In my own house?” Margaret huffed. “Its you who should be more considerate.”
Andrew reappeared, now in a clean shirt.
“Whats all this?” he asked, eyeing the tension.
“Just reminding Emma to keep the noise down,” Margaret said. “Couldnt sleep last night for your chatter.”
“What chatter?” Andrew frowned.
“Your telly, your talking. Went on past midnight.”
Andrew exchanged a glance with Emma, who turned back to the window.
“Mum, we try to keep quiet,” he said carefully.
“Try harder, then. I shouldnt have to lose sleep in my own home.”
“Margaret,” Emma cut in, “maybe we should move out? Rent somewhere, so we dont disturb you.”
Margarets mouth fell open.
“Move out? Whod help me then? Im not getting any younger, and this house is too much for one.”
“Wed visit,” Andrew said. “Help when you need it.”
“Visit!” Margaret threw her hands up. “What if I fall ill? What if something happens? The neighbours are too far to hear. No, nofamily stays together.”
“Then there shouldnt be complaints,” Emma said firmly. “If were family, we respect each other.”
“Of course we respect each other! Im just sharing wisdom.”
Andrew sighed and sat at the table.
“Mum, enough advice for today, yeah? Emmas had a long day.”
“What did I say wrong?” Margaret protested. “Just common sense.”
“Your *common sense* isnt welcome,” Emma snapped. “Well figure things out ourselves.”
Margaret pursed her lips.
“So Im unwanted in my own home. Forty years here, and now Im in the way.”
“No one said that,” Emma softened. “But we deserve privacy.”
“Privacy! Who does your laundry, cooks, cleans? That privacy?”
“We never asked you to,” Emma said. “We can manage.”
“Oh, sure. Between your jobs and all. Im retiredthought I was helping.”
Andrew stood and walked to the window. Outside, the streetlights flickered on.
“Look,” he said, back turned. “Lets settle this. Mum, we appreciate your help. But sometimes we just want spaceno advice, no nitpicking.”
“So I should lock myself away?” Margaret asked.
“No. Talk to us, but dont interfere.”
“Interfere with what?”
Emma set down the knife.
“Margaret, were husband and wife. We have our own lives, plans, relationship.”
“What relationship? You live under my roof!”
“Our *own* family,” Andrew said. “Youre part of the bigger one, not ours.”
Margaret gasped.
“So Im not family? My own son says that!”
“Thats not what he meant,” Emma started.
“Oh, I understand perfectly! Youre shoving me out after forty years!”
“Mum, stop,” Andrew said wearily. “No ones shoving you.”
“But Ive no say in my own home?”
“You do,” Emma said. “Just not in *our* lives.”
Margaret sniffed.
“In my day, elders were respected. Their experience mattered.”
“In your day, people lived five to a flat,” Emma retorted. “Times change.”
Margaret mocked her tone.
“Times change, do they? And whats it got us? Divorces, loneliness. Next door, Judiths son moved outnow shes alone, and hes divorced!”
“Mum, Emma and I arent divorcing,” Andrew said. “We just want peace.”
“Whats not peaceful here?”
Andrew looked between his wife and mother.
“That we cant talk at night. That every move is judged. That Emma hesitates to leave our room.”
“Hesitates?” Margaret scoffed. “Why?”
“Your comments,” Emma admitted. “Theres always criticism.”
“Im *helping*!”
“We dont need help,” Andrew said flatly. “We want spacenot advice.” He looked at Emma.
Margaret stood as if struck.
“Not needed! Forty years a mother, and my advice means nothing!”
“Mum, dont” Andrew reached for her, but she shoved past.
“Leave me be! If my words mean nothing, neither do I!”
She stormed out, slamming the door. The telly in her room blareda pointed protest.
“Well,” Emma exhaled. “Now shell sulk for a week.”
“What choice do we have?” Andrew spread his hands. “Endure forever?”
The tellys volume climbed.
“Should we really move?” Emma whispered.
“And leave her alone? Shes seventy, healths not great.”
“Then we keep tolerating this?”
Andrew pulled her close.
“Dont know. Maybe shell adjust, understand”
Emma leaned into him.
“I just want us happy. Without interference.”
“Me too.”
They stood embraced as the telly roared next doorMargarets declaration of war.
“Tell you what,” Andrew said suddenly. “Tomorrow, well see an estate agent. Check listings.”
“And your mum?”
“Let her try independence. Maybe shell see were family, not staff.”
“But itll be hard for her”
“Well visit daily. Help when needed. But live separately.”
Emma nodded. For the first time in ages, relief washed over her.
“Dont tell her yet,” she murmured. “Let her cool off.”
“Course not.”
They finished the salad in silence, each lost in thought. Emma imagined a small flatjust them. No eavesdropping, no censure. Just life, on their terms.
Andrew thought of his mother. Would she accept this? Understand grown children need freedom? Or brand them ungrateful?
The telly still rumbled through the wallMargarets loud, wounded pride.
“What if shes right?” Emma whispered. “What if we *are* ungrateful?”
“Ungrateful for what? Wanting our own life?”
“Her care, her help”
“We never asked. We can cook, clean, manage.”
“Maybe shes just lonely? A pensioner with nothing to do?”
“Then she should join a club, meet friends. Not meddle.”
Emma nodded, but doubt lingered. Margaret was his mothershed raised him, sacrificed. Now she wanted a role in his adult life.
But involvement wasnt control. And Margaret *wanted* control.
The table was set, salads done. Tomorrow, guests would arrive, and theyd play the perfect familysmiling, chatting, pretending.
Then, once alone, the advice would resume. The nitpicking. The intrusion.
“Final decision,” Andrew said, as if reading her mind. “Tomorrow, we flat-hunt.”
“What if she cuts us off?”
“Her choice,” he said firmly. “Well visit, help, carebut as equals, not subordinates.”
Emma squeezed his hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Choosing me. Not her.”
Next door, the telly clicked off. Margaret was turning in. Tomorrow, she might pretend nothing happened. Or nurse her grudge.
Either way, it didnt matter. Their choice was made.
Emma pictured the next dayguests, lunch, small talk. Then, that evening, flat viewings. Their future. Their freedom.
At last, theyd live as they wished. Not as Margaret dictated.
