The front door creaked open, and Oliver stepped inside, shifting awkwardly in the cramped hallway of their one-bed flat. His mother hovered behind him, clutching two bulky suitcases and a cardboard box tied with string.
“Just for a little while,” Oliver said, avoiding eye contact. “Mum’s pipes burst, and the repairs will take ages. She can’t stay there in that state.”
Charlotte froze, a damp towel in her hands, her wet hair darkening the shoulders of her old dressing gown. Behind Oliver stood Margaret, his mother, wearing a polite smile that didnt quite reach her eyes.
“Hello, love,” Margaret chirped, breezing past the stunned silence. “Dont you worryIll be out of your hair soon as the plumbers are done. A month, tops. Two at the very worst.”
A month? Two? In a thirty-square-metre flat where the kitchen was little more than a cupboard and the bathroom barely fit one person? Charlottes chest tightened with dread.
“Lovely to see you, Margaret,” she forced out, summoning a smile. “But are you sure youll be comfortable here? Maybe a friend could”
“Oh, dont be silly,” Margaret waved her off, already stepping inside. “At my age, friends are either gone or barely managing themselves. Besides, I wouldnt dream of imposing.”
*Just on us, then,* Charlotte thought but bit her tongue.
“Lets put your things here,” Oliver said, gesturing to the corner near the bookshelf. “Youll take the sofa. Charlotte and I can manage on the pull-out.”
“Absolutely not!” Margaret huffed. “Ill take the pull-out. You young ones need a proper bed.”
“Mum, your back”
Charlotte watched, feeling like a stranger in her own home. The flat was hers, inherited from her grandmother before the marriage, but that hardly seemed to matter now. Oliver had made the decision without her.
“Ill put the kettle on,” she muttered, retreating to the kitchen, where the fridge, stove, and tiny table crowded each other. “Margaret, you must be starving.”
“Not to worry, I had a bite on the coach,” Margaret replied, already unpacking onto the armchair. “Tell me, how *do* you manage in this shoebox? Oliver says youre fine, but reallyits high time you looked for something bigger.”
Charlotte pressed her lips together. The topic was soreOlivers mechanic wages and her primary school teacher salary barely covered bills, let alone a mortgage.
“Mum, weve talked about this,” Oliver sighed.
“And when *will* you talk seriously?” Margaret shook her head. “Youre thirty-two, Charlottes twenty-eight. Children dont raise themselves, you know.”
Charlottes face burned. Childrenanother tender subject. Four years married, and every visit from Margaret carried the same pointed reminder.
“Not now, Mum,” Oliver said, shooting Charlotte an apologetic glance.
Margaret scoffed but dropped it, fussing with her belongings instead.
Charlotte escaped to the kitchen, inhaling deeply. She loved Olivertruly. But his inability to say no to his mother, to *consult* her before upending their lives
The kettle whistled. Outside the grimy kitchen window, grey tower blocks loomed under a heavy October sky, mirroring her mood perfectly.
“Need a hand, love?” Margarets voice made her jump.
“No, thanks,” Charlotte lied. “Just lost in thought.”
“About what?” Margaret perched on a wobbly chair.
“Work,” Charlotte lied again. “Thirty kids this year, half of them feral.”
“Disgraceful,” Margaret tutted. “In my day, children *respected* their elders.”
Charlotte poured the tea, biting back a retort.
Later, when Oliver excused himself for an early shift, Margaret cornered her. “How *are* things, really? Oliver says ‘fine,’ but I know when somethings off.”
“Just the usual,” Charlotte replied evenly.
Margaret sighed. “No spark anymore, is there? Hes lost weight, you know. Are you feeding him properly?”
Charlotte sipped her tea to hide her irritation. “We both work late. Takeaways happen.”
“In my day, wives managed both.”
Charlotte clenched her jaw. For Olivers sake, shed endure.
The next morning was chaosthree people fighting over a bathroom built for one. Margaret, despite being retired, rose at dawn, hijacking Charlottes slow, quiet routine.
“I washed your blouse,” Margaret announced over breakfast. “The white onecovered in stains.”
Charlotte choked on her coffee. “That was *wine.* I was soaking it in a special solution!”
“Nonsense,” Margaret scoffed. “Soap and water have never failed me.”
Charlotte rushed to the bathroom. Her favourite blousenow yellowed.
Oliver found her there. “Mum said youre upset. Ill buy you a new one.”
“Its not the blouse,” she whispered. “Its her touching my things without asking. Oliver, why didnt you *warn* me?”
He looked guilty. “I knew youd say no.”
Two weeks in, Margaret had rearranged their livesmeals on *her* schedule, laundry on *her* days, even the TV remote in *her* grip.
The breaking point came Sunday morning, when Charlotte found Margaret rifling through her makeup bag.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, snatching it back.
“My hands were dry,” Margaret said breezily. “I thought Id borrow some cream.”
“Ask first.”
Margaret rolled her eyes. “Secrets in a family? How modern.”
Oliver, watching silently, finally spoke. “Mum, shes right.”
Margaret gasped. “My own son, taking her side over a *cream*?”
Charlotte stormed out, wandering the drizzly streets until she collapsed on a park bench.
Oliver called five times before she answered.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Thinking,” she said. “About whether I can live like this.”
He scoffed. “Over *makeup*?”
“Its *everything*,” she said, voice breaking. “Ill rent a room. Just until the repairs are done. Then we talk.”
Silence. Then”Youre serious?”
“Deadly.”
She hung up, numb but relieved. For the first time in weeks, shed chosen *herself*.
Her friend Sarah had a spare room. Temporary, but a start. Whether Oliver understood or not didnt matter now.
Some lines had to be drawn.
