“You knew he was spineless,” her mother-in-law whispered as he left the room.
“I dont see why we need so much meat,” grumbled Margaret, inspecting the fridge. “Half this amount would be plenty for three adults.”
Emma kept chopping onions for the salad, tears rolling down her cheeksnot from the onions, but from the constant remarks about how she ran the household.
“And these potatoes are all soft,” the older woman went on. “Where on earth did you buy them? Some dodgy corner shop?”
“At the market, Margaret,” Emma replied quietly. “The same place I always go.”
“Right, right. And what good does that do? Money down the drain.”
Emma set the knife down and took a deep breath. Five years of marriage, and every day was the samecriticism, complaints, dissatisfaction. And her husband, James, just sat there, pretending not to hear.
“James, lunch is ready!” she called toward the living room, where he was sprawled on the sofa with his phone.
“Just a sec,” he muttered, not looking up.
“What do you mean, ‘just a sec’?” Margaret huffed. “The foods getting cold, and hes glued to that screen. James, come to the table right now!”
Her son obediently set his phone aside and shuffled into the kitchen, taking his usual seat beside his mother, across from Emma.
“Whatve we got today?” he asked, unfolding his napkin.
“Roast beef and Yorkshire puddings,” Emma said, ladling gravy onto the plates.
“Roast beef again?” Margaret wrinkled her nose. “Gives me terrible indigestion. Emma, you know I cant handle rich food.”
“You could skip the gravy,” Emma suggested. “I went easy on the seasoning.”
“Doesnt matter. Still too heavy. And why so many potatoes? You know they give James bloating.”
Emma glanced at her husband, hoping hed say somethinganything. But James just chewed quietly, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.
“Next time, Ill just make a plain chicken soup,” Emma relented.
“About time. Back in my day, people made do with simple stews, and they were healthier for it.”
Lunch passed in the usual silenceMargaret picking apart every dish, James nodding along, Emma counting the minutes until it was over.
Afterward, Margaret retreated to her room to watch telly, while Emma cleared the table. James moved to return to the sofa, but she stopped him.
“James, we need to talk.”
“About what?” He paused at the doorway, annoyed.
“About your mother. I cant live like this anymore.”
“Whats the problem? Mums not doing anything wrong.”
Emma nearly dropped a plate. “Not doing anything wrong? James, she criticizes everything I docooking, cleaning, shopping. I feel like a servant in my own home!”
“Shes just used to being in control. Shes been running things her whole life.”
“Running things? Then what am I? A temporary lodger?”
James rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Emma, dont overreact. Shes set in her ways. Just give her time.”
“Ive given her five years! Five years, waiting for her to adjust. And she only gets worse.”
“What do you want me to do? Kick my own mother out?”
“I want you to stand up to her. Make it clear this is my homeyour wifes home.”
James shook his head. “I cant talk to her like that. She raised me.”
“And what am I, then? A stranger? Were supposed to be a family!”
“Of course we are. But shes my mum.”
Emma felt something inside her twist with hurt. Every time. His mother always came first.
“Fine,” she said, fighting back tears. “Got it.”
“Emma, dont be like this. You have to understandolder people need patience.”
He reached to touch her shoulder, but she stepped away.
“Go on, then. Your mums probably missing you.”
James hovered for a moment, then sighed and left. Emma stayed behind, staring at the pile of dirty dishes and the weight of her own thoughts.
Shed met James at university. Hed seemed so steady, so calmnothing like her past boyfriends, all loud arguments and drama. James never raised his voice. He was polite, considerate. Maybe too soft sometimes, but shed thought that was a good thing. After the shouting matches in her own family, shed been desperate for peace.
Shed only met Margaret at the wedding. Shed seemed pleasantstrict but kind. Shed even said shed always wanted a daughter-in-law to love like her own.
The trouble started when they rented a flat near Margarets house. She dropped by dailyfor salt, for sugar, for any excuse. And while she was there, shed inspect everything with a critical eye.
“Emma, whys the floor so dull? Youre using the wrong cleaner.”
Or:
“The air in your bedroom smells stale. You should open the windows more.”
Emma tried to ignore it, telling herself Margaret was just worried about her son. But the comments grew sharper.
Then James lost his job. Money got tight, and Margaret generously offered to let them move injust temporarily, until he found something new.
That “temporary” stretched into three years. James found work at a small firm, but the pay was barely enough to cover bills, let alone rent. And Margaret no longer hid her belief that Emma wasnt good enough for him.
“My friend Barbaras daughter-in-law is completely different,” shed say. “Thrifty, tidyhouse like a magazine spread. And most importantly, she respects her husband.”
The message was clear: Emma didnt respect James if she dared disagree with him.
Now, Emma finished the washing-up and went to the bathroom, studying her reflection. Thirty years old, but she looked forty. The stress and sleepless nights had taken their toll.
From the living room came the muffled sound of the telly and Margarets low voice talking to James about some neighbor whod parked badly.
“You should say something to her,” Margaret was saying. “But you know how rude she is.”
“Mum, just leave it. Not worth the hassle.”
“Right, son. No point dealing with difficult women.”
Emma knew the conversation wasnt just about the neighbor. Margaret often hinted that her daughter-in-law fell into the same category. But James had already married her, so now they had to put up with it.
That evening, Emma tried again. She waited until Margaret had gone to bed, then sat beside James on the sofa.
“James, I mean it. Im miserable here.”
“Emma, not this again.”
“What am I supposed to do? Suffer in silence forever?”
“Not forever. Mums not getting any younger.”
Emma went cold. “So youre telling me to wait until your mother dies?”
“No! I just meanmaybe well move out soon.”
“Move where? We cant even afford a room on your salary.”
“Ill find better work.”
“Youve been saying that for three years.”
James exhaled sharply. “Why do you always nag me? Ive got enough stress without this.”
“*Youre* stressed? What about me?”
“Emma, enough. Lets just watch something.”
He grabbed the remote and flipped channels. The discussion was over. Emma sat there a moment longer, then got up and went to bed alone.
In the bedroom, she pulled out an old notebook from her first year of marriagepages filled with hopes, plans, dreams. She flipped through the yellowing paper.
*”I want our own home, just our family. Kids running around. Me deciding what to cook, how to clean.”*
Kids. Shed wanted them, but James always said it wasnt the right time. First, they needed stability. Their own place. Except they still had neither.
*”James is so patient, so kind. Never shouts. Hell be a wonderful father.”*
A wonderful father to children theyd never havenot if they lived with Margaret indefinitely.
She closed the notebook and lay down. James came in an hour later, careful not to wake her. She pretended to be asleep.
The next morning at breakfast, Margaret announced, “Barbaras visiting today. Havent seen her in ages. Emma, do a proper cleanI dont want to be embarrassed.”
“I clean every day, Margaret.”
“Not well enough. Theres dust everywhere.”
“Where?” Emma frowned.
“On the shelves, the telly. And the hallway mirrors smudged.”
Emma walked through the flat. No dust. Mirrors spotless. But she didnt arguejust grabbed a cloth and wiped everything down again.
Barbara arrived at lunchtimea loud, confident woman in a bright dress.
“Margaret, darling!” she boomed from the doorway. “And this must be Emma! Margarets told me all about you.”
Emma offered tea, and the two women settled at the kitchen table, gossiping.
“My Lindas on her third husband,” Barbara said. “Says the last one was hopelessno backbone at all.”
“Men these days,” Margaret sighed. “No strength of character.”
Emma, washing dishes, listened despite herself.
“And your James? Still at that little firm?”
“Oh, yes. Good boy, just too soft. Lets his wife walk all over him, can you believe it?”
Emma nearly dropped a cup.
“Really?” Barbara eyed her. “He seems so steady.”
“Steady, yes. But no spine. She argues, he just takes it. I tell him, ‘James, youre the man of the house!’ And he says, ‘Mum, stay out of it.'”
Barbara tutted. “And Emma? Is she strict with him?”
Margaret lowered her voice, but Emma still heard.
“Not strict. Just… difficult. Doesnt respect him. And no children, of coursetoo busy with her *career*.”
Emmas face burned. Margaret was discussing their private lifepainting her as the villain.
Barbara left by evening. James came home tired and hungry.
“Dinner ready?” he asked, hanging up his coat.
“Ill heat it up,” Emma said.
Over the meal, Margaret chatted about Barbaras visitconveniently leaving out the personal remarks.
“Barbara was asking after you,” she said. “Such a lovely woman, shame we dont see her more.”
James nodded, chewing quietly. Emma wondered how many people would soon hear about “spineless James” and his “difficult” wife.
Later, when Margaret went to watch telly, Emma cornered James in the kitchen.
“James, your mother discussed our marriage with Barbara today.”
“What?”
“That we dont have kids. That I dont respect you. That youre spineless.”
James frowned. “She wouldnt say that.”
“She did. I heard her.”
“Maybe you misunderstood. Mums not cruel.”
“She called you *spineless* in front of someone else!”
“Emma, who cares what people say?”
“I care! This is my family. I wont be gossiped about.”
“Nobodys gossiping. Women just talk.”
Emma realized he still didnt get itor didnt want to.
“Fine,” she said. “Then tomorrow, Ill talk to your mother myself.”
“Dont. Why stir up trouble?”
“What else can I do? You wont stand up for us.”
“This isnt about standing up. Mum means well.”
“Does she? She tells strangers our private business, criticizes everything I do, interferes in our marriage. Thats *normal* to you?”
James stood. “Im exhausted. Well talk tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow youll be too tired again. And the day after that.”
But he was already gone.
The next morning, James left early, muttering about a work meeting. Emma waited until hed gone, then faced Margaret over breakfast.
“Margaret, we need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About you discussing my marriage with Barbara.”
Margaret set down her newspaper. “Whats the harm? Friends talk.”
“About what? That your sons spineless?”
“Isnt he?” Margaret said calmly. “Look at him. Thirty-three and still behaves like a boy. Gives in to you, wont argue back.”
Emmas hands clenched.
“Hes not weak. He loves me.”
“Loves one thing. A man should lead. Not hide behind his wife when theres trouble.”
“What trouble? What are you even saying?”
Margaret studied her. “That he cant stand up to you. Even when youre wrong. Thats not how a man acts.”
“I dont *control* him!”
“Oh, you do. And he lets you. A real husband would put you in your place.”
Emma stood, trembling. “*Put me in my place?* For what?”
“For defiance. Disrespect. Forgetting who runs this house.”
“*Runs it?* I live here, work, clean, cook. How am I not part of this home?”
Margaret rose slowly. “Because, dear, this is *my* house. James is *my* son. Youre just passing through. Remember that.”
The words hit like a slap.
“Passing through? Weve been married five years!”
“So? A ring doesnt guarantee anything. If a wife doesnt suit, shes replaced.”
“You want to *replace* me?”
“I want my son happy. With you, hes not. Even if he wont admit it.”
Emma sank into a chair, heart pounding.
“Has James complained about me?”
“Not in words. But Im his motherI see it. Hes tired of your nagging. He used to be lively, open. Now hes withdrawn.”
“Because of *your* lectures!”
“Mine?” Margaret scoffed. “Im gentle with him. *Youre* the one who wears him down.”
Emma realized there was no winning. Margaret would never blame herself.
“Fine,” she said, standing. “Ill talk to James.”
“Do. Though I doubt hell tell you the whole truth. Probably afraid to.”
Emma locked herself in the bedroom and criedreally criedfor the first time in years.
James came home late, grim-faced.
“Whats wrong?” she asked.
“Work. They cut my bonus.”
“Im sorry. But we need to talk.”
“Not now, Emma. Im shattered.”
He showered and went straight to bed. Emma lay awake, replaying Margarets words. Was James unhappy? Was he hiding it?
In the morning, she asked him directly.
“James, honestlyare you happy with me?”
He blinked. “What kind of question? Of course.”
“Your mother thinks otherwise.”
“What did she say?”
“That youre tired of my nagging. That I make you miserable.”
James sighed. “Mum worries. She thinks we argue too much.”
“We argue *because of her*!”
“Emma, this isnt about Mum. We cant agree on anythingkids, work, the future.”
She saw him dodging again.
“James, tell me the truth. Do you want me to leave?”
He hesitated. Then, softly: “No. But I cant keep living like this.”
“Like *what*?”
“Caught in the middle. Between you and her.”
“Then pick a side,” Emma said. “Your wife or your mother.”
James stood. “Im late for work. Well talk tonight.”
But that night, he hid in the bathroom, then let Margaret monopolize him with talk of redecorating.
Emma understood. He was avoiding the conversation. That *was* his answer.
By morning, shed made her choice. While James was at work, she packed a suitcasejust the essentials.
Margaret noticed as she carried it to the hall.
“Going somewhere?”
“To a friends. For a while.”
“Long while?”
“Dont know yet.”
Margaret nodded. “Maybe its for the best. James needs a break from all this drama.”
Emma picked up her keys. “Margaret, tell your son if he wants me back, he comes alone. Without you.”
“Well see if he even wants to,” Margaret said.
Emma shut the door behind her. On the landing, she paused, listening. Silence.
Downstairs, she stepped outside. The sun was bright, the air fresh. She took a deep breath and felt something like relief.
That evening, James called.
“Emma, Mum said you left. When are you coming back?”
“I dont know. Maybe never.”
“What? Were married.”
“On paper. In reality?”
James didnt answer.
“James, Im done choosing between us. You do it. Either we live apart from your mother, or we divorce.”
“Emma, dont do this.”
“Do *what*? Ask you to choose your wife over your mum? Any decent man would.”
“And if I cant?”
The silence told her everything. Hed already chosen. He just couldnt say it.
“Then Ill choose for us,” she whispered, and hung up.
She slid the phone into her bag, turned, and walked away. Where to, she wasnt sure yet. But with every step, it got easier. Not because it was simplebut because this time, she was choosing herself.
And no one would take that choice from her again.
