Mum isnt going anywhere! Its you wholl be out on the street! shouted her husband, forgetting who truly owned the flat.
Emma stood by the window. The July heat pressed down on London. In the garden below, children darted between the trees, seeking shade.
Emma, wheres my shirt? came from the bedroom. The blue-checked one!
Its in the wardrobe, she replied without turning. On the top shelf.
James appeared in the doorway, buttoning the shirt hed found. Tall, broad-shouldered, with the rough hands of a carpenter. Once, those hands had seemed strong, dependable.
Listen, he began, adjusting his collar. Mums coming round tonight. Tidy up properlylast time she spent the whole evening moaning about dust.
Emma slowly turned to face him. A familiar irritation tightened in her chest.
Your mother always finds something to complain about, she said quietly. Last time, the roast was too dry. Before that, the potatoes were undercooked.
Then do better, James shrugged, as if discussing the weather. Shes got experiencejust trying to help, and you take it the wrong way.
Emma clenched her fists. This flat was hers alone. Shed bought the two-bedroom flat before theyd even met, decorated it to her taste, poured her savings into the renovation. Now, Margaret swept in every visit, rearranged her things, lectured her on where everything belonged.
Jim, this is *my* flat, Emma reminded him. Maybe you should remember that?
Her husband froze, his hand already on the doorknob.
Whats that supposed to mean? Jamess voice darkened. That I dont belong here?
I mean your mother acts like she owns the place, Emma stepped closer. And you let her.
Mum cares about us! James turned fully toward her. About *family*! She even gave up her own place for my brother!
Emma gave a bitter smile. That story about helping the younger generation had worn thin.
Your mum gave David a one-bed flat two years ago, she said slowly. So what? Now she gets to run my home?
*Our* home! James snapped. Were married!
On your thirty-thousand salary, wed be renting a shoebox in Croydon, the words slipped out before Emma could stop them.
Her husbands face darkened. He stepped toward her, looming.
So now youre throwing that in my face? His voice shook with anger. Because I dont earn enough?
Im not throwing anything, Emma lifted her chin. Just stating facts. Your mum rents now because she gave David her flat. Yet she lectures *us* on how to live.
Davids got a young family! James turned to the window. They needed the help!
A family, Emma repeated. Always about family.
James spun back, his eyes flashing.
And what, isnt it time? Weve been married five years, and you keep putting it off. A proper wife wants children!
On *what*, Jim? Emma spread her hands. Your wages? Do you know how much nappies cost? School uniforms? Doctors visits?
Wed manage, he waved it off. People do!
*People*, Emma shook her head. And Id be stuck on maternity pay while you break your back at the workshop for peanuts?
Outside, birds chirped in the trees. James was silent, jaw tight.
You know what, he said finally. Enough arguing. Mums got problems.
What now? Emma stepped away from the window.
She cant afford rent anymore, James rubbed his neck. Her pension doesnt cover it, and the landlords doubled it.
Emma nodded. Margaret had been complaining for months. It made sense shed move in with Davidinto the very flat shed given him.
Right, Emma said. Then Davids lot will have to squeeze in.
James straightened, his gaze hardening.
Mums staying here, he declared. Temporarily, till she sorts something out.
Emma froze. The words echoed in her ears.
*Here?* she repeated. In *our* flat?
Yes, here! James raised his voice. Whats the issue? Theres room.
Jim, wheres she sleeping? The sofa?
Whats wrong with that? he crossed his arms. Mum sacrificed everything for us, and youre being selfish!
Emma stepped back against the wall, indignation rising.
Why not with David? she asked quietly. Hes got the flat *she* gave him.
Theyve got a *kid*! James roared. They need the space! Arent we family too?
We are, but this flat is *mine*, Emma reminded him.
Jamess face darkened further. He moved closer.
Selfish! Always thinking of yourself! A decent wife would stand by her husband in tough times!
Emma pressed against the wall. He was too close, suffocating.
You wont give me kids, at least help the family! he went on. Mums given *everything* for us!
Jim, listen Emma began, but he cut her off.
Maybe you dont *want* a family? Then say it!
Emma lowered her head. James knew how to push, where to press. Guilt washed over her.
Fine, she said quietly. She can stay for a bit.
A week later, Margaret moved into their living room. She brought three suitcases and immediately started rearranging. The TV went by the window, the sofa against the wall, Emmas plants exiled to the balcony.
Needs more light in here, her mother-in-law explained as she shifted furniture. And those pots just gather dust.
Emma watched silently as her living room became a strangers space. James helped his mother, hauling boxes.
Mum, you alright here? he asked gently.
Ill manage, Margaret sighed. Though its a bit tight.
Three months passed. Emma became a ghost in her own home. She tiptoed, apologised for every noise.
Margaret took over completely. She threw out Emmas washing powder, replaced it with her own. Banned her favourite biscuits.
Too pricey, get the own-brand, she ordered in the shop. No need to waste money.
Each morning, Emma cleaned under her mother-in-laws watchful eye. One day, taking out the rubbish, something familiar caught her eye. She bent down and froze.
A childhood photo album. The one with school pictures, holidays. Her only keepsake.
Trembling, she pulled it out, stained with tea leaves.
Margaret, she called, walking into the living room. Why was this in the bin?
Her mother-in-law didnt look up from the telly.
Oh, that? Tossed it. Just clutter.
These are my *childhood* photos! Emmas voice shook.
Old rubbish, Margaret waved her off. No point keeping it.
Something snapped inside Emma. Three months of humiliation, silence, shameall erupted.
*Get out!* she screamed. Get out of *my* flat, now!
Margaret jumped up, eyes blazing.
How *dare* you speak to me like that! she shrieked. Know your place!
James rushed in, siding instantly with his mother.
Mums not going anywhere! he roared. *Youll* be the one on the street!
But Emmas rage had turned to ice. She looked at them both, calm and clear.
The flats in *my* name, she said firmly. Only I decide who stays.
Youre *mad*! James stepped closer, red-faced. Im your *husband*!
*Ex*-husband, Emma corrected, turning to the wardrobe.
She yanked out a duffel bag and began stuffing it with Margarets thingsblouses, cardigans, nightgownswithout care.
Youve lost it! James shouted. Stop this!
Emma didnt answer. She grabbed slippers from under the sofa, tossed them in. Margaret scrambled to snatch her belongings back.
Love, *think*! her voice trembled. Were *family*!
Family? Emma whirled around. Family doesnt *bin* childhood memories!
Margaret shrank back. James tried to grab the bag, but Emma dodged.
Mum gave *everything* for us! he shouted. And youre tossing her out like *rubbish*!
For *five years* I put up with your nonsense, Emma zipped the bulging bag. For *three months* Ive been a ghost in my own home!
She marched to the bedroom, bundled Jamess clothesjumpers, shirts, jeansinto another bag. He followed, gripping her arm.
*Think!* Where do we *go*?
Not my problem, Emma pulled free. Try Davids.
Theres no *room* at Davids! Margaret wailed. Theyve got a *baby*!
And *Ive* got *me*! Emma shouted back, hauling both bags to the door.
She returned for shoes, toiletries, odds and ends.
Youll *regret* this! James yelled, shoving on his jacket. Youll come *crawling* back!
Emma held the door open, silent. Margaret sniffled, stuffing the last of her things into a bag.
Dear, *please*, she begged. Where will we *live*?
Where you lived before me, Emma replied.
James stormed out. On the threshold, he turned, face twisted.
Margaret stepped out last, dragging her bags. From the landing, she glared back.
*Ungrateful!* she shouted. We only *wanted the best for you*!
Emma shut the door. Turned the key, slid the bolt. Shouts, footsteps, the lift doors echoed from the stairwell.
Then silence.
Emma leaned against the door, listening to her own breath. For the first time in months, no blaring telly, no creaking sofa.
She walked to the living room. Put the sofa back, turned the TV around. Brought her plants inside.
Then she sat, cradling the rescued album. Flipped throughschool plays, birthday cakes, summer holidays.
And suddenly, she laughed. Quietly, then louder. The laughter became sobs, then laughter again. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the album to her chest.
The flat was hers again. *Hers* alone.
**A home isnt just wallsits where you breathe freely.**
