“You ought to be pleased that my mother is eating your food,” my wife snapped, cheeks flushed with irritation.
“Did you put my boots on again?” Emma burst into the hallway, eyes widening at the open wardrobe door. “I told you not to touch my things!”
“Sweetheart, what’s the fuss?” Margaret, my mother, adjusted her scarf in front of the mirror. “You can see it’s a miserably wet day outside, and I’ve only got my fancy party heels. Isn’t that a pity?”
“It’s not about pity,” Emma crossed her arms, feeling the heat rise in her chest. “It’s about respecting my personal space. I don’t wander into your room and I don’t take your belongings.”
My mother tightened her lips and shot Emma the same royal stare shed given me once: a slow, slightly squinting look topped with a condescending smile.
“How delicate we are,” she cooed. “Back in our day eight people could share a single room and nobody complained about personal space.”
“Maybe they didn’t complain then,” Emma muttered, “but times have changed.”
“What are you muttering about?” Margaret leaned in, pretending not to hear. “Speak up, I’m not a spring chicken any more.”
Emma drew a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Living with my mother for the past three months had been a trial, but we had no choice. We had to give up the flat wed rented together so we could meet the mortgage payments on our new house. The build was delayed, so we were crammed into Margarets twobedroom cottage.
“I’m going to the shop now to buy you some rubber boots,” Emma forced a smile. “So you wont suffer.”
“Oh, no need!” my mother flapped her hands. “My shoe cupboard is already bursting. You should buy yourself a pair instead of making me feel sorry for yours.”
“Yours,” Emma thought, emphasizing that it was *her* choice, not *old* or *everyday* shoes, but *her* shoes. It was a reminder of who owned the decisionwhether to share or not.
“Fine, Margaret,” Emma said simply. “I’ll be off to work now; I have a late meeting.”
“Again?” my mother shook her head. “Alex will come home tired and hungry, and his wife will be nowhere to be found.”
“Alex can heat his own dinner,” Emma replied, pulling on her coat. “Everything’s ready in the fridge.”
Stepping out into the drizzle, she inhaled the damp spring air. The rain had stopped, but the slushy snow underfoot had turned to a grey mush. “She really does need those boots,” Emma admitted as she walked to the bus stop.
At the office, the day crawled by. Emma works as a graphic designer for a printing firm and usually drowns herself in work. Today, though, her thoughts kept looping back to this mornings spat, to the missing packet of pricey tea, and to the time Margaret *accidentally* washed Emmas favourite sweater in hot water.
“You’re a bit on edge today,” her colleague Natalie said, sliding into the break room. “Motherinlaw again?”
Emma gave a weak grin.
“You can say that.”
“Tell me, what happened this time?”
“Nothing major,” Emma waved her hand. “Just the usual household annoyances stacking up.”
“And Alex?”
“Alex loves his mum, I get that. He tries to stay neutral.”
“Neutral wont work forever,” Natalie warned. “Sooner or later youll have to pick a side. Itd be better if he chose yours, otherwise”
“Otherwise what?” Emma snapped her head up. “Ill leave him because of my motherinlaw?”
“Not because of her, but because of his stance,” Natalie corrected. “Believe me, Ive been there. My first marriage fell apart after five years, largely because my husband always sided with his mother.”
Emma recalled a friends divorce that had been driven by constant clashes with the motherinlaw, the husband always defending his own mum.
“Well get through this,” Emma said confidently. “The new house should be finished in a couple of months, and things will settle.”
“Lets hope,” Natalie sighed, not sharing Emmas optimism.
That evening Emma decided to surprise Alex with the ingredients for his favourite carrot cake, planning to bake it first thing Saturday. The flat was quiet; only the kitchen light glowed. She slipped off her shoes and headed in, stopping at the doorway. Margaret was sitting at the table, digging into a casserole Emma had made for breakfasta whole dish meant for three.
“Emma!” Margaret jumped, startled. “Back already? I thought you’d be later.”
“The meeting got cancelled,” Emma said, looking at the almostempty casserole dish. “Wheres Alex?”
“He’s out with his mates, said not to wait,” Margaret waved a hand. “I thought I’d have dinner. The storebought chicken didnt appeal, so I tried your casserole. Its tasty, by the way!”
Emma placed the grocery bags on the table in silence, realizing shed now have to get up an hour earlier to make a new breakfast. She had been hoping to sleep in on Saturday.
“Margaret,” she began calmly, “that casserole was meant for breakfastfor everyone.”
“Oh, dear, Im sorry!” Margaret flapped her hands, but there was no genuine remorse in her eyes. “I didnt know. I thought it was just sitting in the fridge. No matter, youll cook something else tomorrow. Youre a brilliant cook!”
Emma clenched her jaw. Margaret knew full well the casserole was for breakfast; Emma had mentioned it at dinner the night before when they were planning the weekend menu.
“Alright,” Emma said, “Im going to change.”
While unpacking the groceries, she realized the chocolate shed bought for the cake was missing.
“Margaret, have you seen the chocolate? It should have been in the bags.”
Margaret gave an apologetic smile.
“Oh, Emma, sorry! I took a piece for my tea. Thought you wouldnt notice.”
A surge of anger rose in Emmanot because of the chocolate itself, but because of the relentless trespassing of boundaries, the casual disregard for her possessions.
“I noticed,” she replied shortly. “It was for Alexs cake.”
“Buy another tomorrow,” Margaret shrugged. “The shops just across the road.”
Emma nodded, holding back the sting of hurt and fury. She didnt want a scene; what would it achieve? Margaret would simply pretend not to understand the problem.
Alex came home late, finding Emma already in bed with a book.
“Hey, love,” he leaned in to kiss her. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” Emma set the book aside. “And yours?”
“Great! Met the lads, had a pint at the pub. Felt like ages since weve been out.”
Emma didnt know whether to mention the eaten casserole and the missing chocolate. She didnt want to seem petty.
“Is your mum still up?” Alex asked, pulling his sweater over his head.
“Shes in her room watching telly.”
“Ill pop in to say hello,” he said, heading out.
From the hallway she could hear Margarets muffled laughter. Emma wondered if her motherinlaw had spun the story for Alex, painting herself in a better light.
Alex returned about twenty minutes later, looking relaxed.
“Guess what? Mum loved your casserole,” he said, slipping under the covers. “Says its fingerlicking good.”
“I know,” Emma replied dryly. “It was for breakfast.”
“So what?” Alex turned to her. “Make something else. At least mum appreciated your cooking!”
Emma looked at him.
“Alex, it’s not about the casserole. Its that your mum keeps taking my things without asking, eats food I set aside for special occasions, and never respects my opinions.”
“Come off it,” Alex waved a hand. “Its just a casserole. Mum was hungry.”
“And the chocolate for your cake? She just ate it.”
“What chocolate?” Alex frowned.
“The bar I bought for a surprise cake tomorrow. She swiped it for her tea.”
“And what? Youre upset because she ate it?” Alexs tone grew sharper. “She felt sorry for you?”
“It isnt the chocolate!” Emma felt tears welling. “She does it on purpose, testing limits, reminding everyone who runs the house.”
“Nonsense!” Alex sat up, irritated. “Youre overreacting. Mum just wanted a snack.”
“Yesterday it was my tea, the day before my boots, now my chocolate,” Emma counted on her fingers. “Always something mine, always without asking.”
Alex stared at her, confused.
“Are you serious? You count every little thing? Split everything into mine and hers? Were a family!”
“Family means respecting each others boundaries,” Emma said quietly. “Asking before you take something, not barging in and eating what was meant for everyone.”
“Youre being ridiculous!” Alex raised his voice. “You should be glad my mum eats your foodthats a compliment! She likes what you cook.”
Emma stared at him, eyes wide, unable to grasp why he didnt see the problem.
“A compliment?” she repeated. “So if I make you dinner and your mum eats it while were not there, thats a compliment? Not disrespect?”
“Stop dramatising!” Alex snapped, pulling the blanket tighter. “Im exhausted, had a hard day, and youre turning this over a casserole!”
He got up, grabbed his pillow.
“Im going to crash on the sofa. Ive got an early start tomorrow. Good night.”
Emma was left alone, tears streaming down her cheeks. She hadnt expected such a reaction. Shed hoped Alex would understand, would back her up, but hed taken his mothers side without even trying to see her side.
The next morning Emma woke to the smell of pancakes. Margaret was bustling in the kitchen, while Alex sat at the table grinning.
“Morning, love,” he said, as if the previous night never happened. “Mum decided to treat us. Have a seat.”
Emma reluctantly sat. Margaret placed a plate of pancakes before her.
“Eat up, dear. Ive also made some scrambled eggs, will bring them over.”
“Thanks,” Emma whispered. “Just a coffee for me, Im not hungry.”
“Not hungry?” Margaret exclaimed, arms flailing. “Ive made a feast! Youll be mad if you dont eat.”
Alex watched, waiting for Emmas reaction, as if a refusal would be a declaration of war.
“Fine,” Emma said, taking a fork. “Ill have a little.”
“Good girl!” Margaret patted her head like a child. “Youve gotten so skinny; youll end up in a coffin if you dont eat.”
Alex snorted but stayed quiet. Emma mechanically chewed the pancakes, already feeling that this place was no longer her home. Was it ever?
After breakfast, when Margaret left for the shop, Emma decided it was time to talk to Alex. She couldnt postpone it any longer.
“Alex, we need to talk about your mum,” she began, sitting opposite him on the sofa.
“Again?” he grimaced. “Everything seems fine. She even made us breakfast.”
“Thats a nice gesture,” Emma agreed, “but the issue is the lack of respect for my personal space. I feel like a guest in my own house, not a family member.”
Alex sighed.
“Emma, Mum is used to being the lady of the house. Its hard for her to change. Bear with it; well move soon.”
“And when we move?” Emma asked quietly. “Will she still drop by our new flat, take my things without asking, eat what Ive prepared for everyone?”
Alex looked away.
“Shell visit now and then, of course. Shes my mum.”
“You dont see a problem?” Emma leaned forward. “Im not against your mother; Im against the constant disregard for my boundaries. And youre not hearing that.”
“Im concerned youre splitting everything into yours and hers,” Alex retorted. “Were a family; we share.”
“Sharing is fine,” Emma said, “but it should be consensual, not because someone grabs without permission.”
They stared at each other, and Emma realised Alex wasnt grasping the core issue. To him, his mother would always occupy a special, untouchable spot, immune to criticism or rules. Emma felt she had to accept that as a fact.
“You know what?” she said finally? “Im going to stay at Natalies cottage for the weekend.”
“What?” Alex raised an eyebrow. “All over a casserole?”
“Not over the casserole,” Emma shook her head. “Over the fact you wont listen to me. I need some time to think.”
She stood, gathering her things. Alex didnt follow; he stayed on the sofa, staring into the empty room.
When Emma left with her bag, he asked,
“What should I tell Mum?”
“The truth,” she replied. “That Ive left to think about our future. You should think too.”
She stepped out of the flat, the cold spring air filling her lungs. A text buzzed on her phoneNatalie confirming the cottage key was with the neighbour. A quiet weekend alone, away from the noise, was exactly what she needed. Then she would have the serious talk with Alex about family, boundaries, and respect.
Because a family isnt about sacrificing yourself for others; its about each person valuing the others feelings, even over something as small as a breakfast casserole.
