«You knew he was a pushover,» whispered the mother-in-law as he left.
«I dont see why we need this much meat,» grumbled Margaret Wilkins, peering into the fridge. «Half this would do for three adults.»
Emma silently carried on chopping onions for salad. Tears rolled down her cheeksnot from the onions, but from yet another backhanded remark about her homemaking.
«And the potatoes are all soft,» the older woman carried on. «Where on earth do you shop, some dodgy corner shop?»
«At the market, Margaret. The same place I always do,» Emma replied quietly.
«Right, right. And what good has that done? Money down the drain.»
Emma set the knife down on the chopping board and took a deep breath. Five years of marriage, and every day was the same. Criticism, complaints, disapproval. And her husband, Oliver, just sat there, pretending not to hear.
«Oliver, lunch is ready!» she called toward the living room, where he was sprawled on the sofa scrolling through his phone.
«Just a minute,» he muttered, not looking up.
«What do you mean, *just a minute*?» Margaret huffed. «Foods going cold while he fiddles with that thing. Oliver, get to the table *now*!»
Her son obediently put his phone down and shuffled into the kitchen, taking his usual seat beside his mother, opposite Emma.
«Whats for lunch?» he asked, unfolding a napkin.
«Beef stew and mashed potatoes,» Emma said, ladling portions into bowls.
«*Again* with the stew,» Margaret grimaced. «Gives me heartburn. Emma, you know I cant handle rich food.»
«You could skip the gravy,» Emma suggested. «I didnt add extra stock this time.»
«Hardly makes a difference. Still too heavy. And why so many carrots? You know Oliver gets bloated from them.»
Emma glanced at her husband, hoping he might say *something*. But Oliver just spooned stew into his mouth, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.
«Next time, Ill just make plain roast beef,» Emma surrendered.
«About time. All these fancy recipespeople used to live on good old-fashioned meals and were healthier for it.»
Lunch passed in its usual silence. Margaret picked apart every dish, Oliver nodded along, and Emma counted the minutes until the torture ended.
Afterwards, Margaret retreated to her room for her afternoon telly marathon, while Emma cleared the table. Oliver tried to slip back to the sofa, but she stopped him.
«Oliver, we need to talk.»
«About what?» He lingered in the doorway, irritated.
«Your mother. I cant live like this anymore.»
«Whats the problem? Mums not doing anything wrong.»
Emma nearly dropped a plate in disbelief.
«*Nothing wrong*? Oliver, she criticises *everything*my cooking, my cleaning, my shopping. I feel like a servant in my own home!»
«Shes just used to being in charge. Shes run a household her whole life.»
«And what am I? A lodger?»
Oliver rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
«Em, dont overreact. Shes set in her ways. Just give her time.»
«*Five years*, Oliver. Five years Ive waited. 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. Tell her this is *our* home, and *Im* your wife.»
Oliver shook his head.
«I cant talk to her like that. She raised me.»
«And Im *what*, then? A stranger? Were supposed to be a family!»
«Course we are. But shes my *mum*.»
Emma felt something inside her twist. Every time. His mother always came first.
«Right,» she said, fighting back tears. «Got it.»
«Em, dont be like that. Youve got to make allowances for older people.»
He reached to pat her shoulder, but she stepped away.
«Go on, then. Your mum probably misses you.»
Oliver hovered a moment, then sighed and left. Emma stayed in the kitchen, staring at the pile of dishes and the mess of her thoughts.
Shed met Oliver at university. Hed seemed so steady, so calmunlike her exes, all loud-mouthed and quick-tempered. Oliver never raised his voice, always polite, always gentle. Too gentle, sometimes, but shed thought that was a good thing. Shed had enough drama growing up.
Shed first met Margaret at the wedding. Shed seemed pleasanta bit stern, but kind. Said shed always wanted a daughter-in-law, that shed love Emma like her own.
The trouble started when theyd rented a flat near Margarets. Shed drop by dailyborrowing sugar, checking in. And always with a critical eye.
«Emma, whys the floor so dull? Youre using the wrong cleaner.»
Or:
«Bit stuffy in here. You should air the rooms more.»
Emma had brushed it off, thinking Margaret was just fussing over her son. But the remarks grew sharper.
Then Oliver lost his job. Money got tight, and Margaret had *graciously* offered they move in with her. Just temporarily, till he got back on his feet.
That «temporarily» had stretched to three years. Oliver found work at a small firm, but they could never quite afford to leave. And Margaret no longer hid that she thought Emma wasnt good enough.
«My friend Barbaras daughter-in-law is *properly* thrifty,» shed say. «House like a show home, and she knows the value of money. Respects her husband, too.»
The message was clear: Emma didnt respect Oliver if she dared disagree.
Now, Emma finished the dishes and slipped into the bathroom, studying her reflection. Thirty, but she looked forty. Stress and sleepless nights had taken their toll.
From the lounge came the murmur of the telly and Margarets voice, chatting to Oliver about the neighbour whod parked badly again.
«Someone ought to have a word,» Margaret said. «But you know how rude she is.»
«Just leave it, Mum. Not worth the hassle.»
«Right you are, love. No point wasting breath on silly women.»
Emma knew that wasnt *just* about the neighbour. Margaret often hinted Emma was one of those «silly women.» But Oliver, apparently, had already tied himself to her.
That evening, she tried again. Waited till Margaret went to bed, then sat beside Oliver on the sofa.
«Oliver, Im serious. Im miserable here.»
«Em, not this again.»
«What am I supposed to do? Suffer in silence forever?»
«Its not *forever*. Mums not immortal.»
Emma went cold.
«Are you seriously telling me to wait for your mum to *die*?»
«No! I just meanshes getting on. Maybe we *could* move soon.»
«*Move where*? We cant even afford a bedsit on your salary.»
«Ill find something better.»
«Youve been saying that for three years.»
Oliver sighed irritably.
«Why dyou always nag me? Ive got enough on my plate.»
«*You* have? What about *me*?»
«Em, give it a rest. Lets just watch telly.»
He grabbed the remote. Conversation over. Emma sat a while longer, then left.
In the bedroom, she dug out an old notebook from her first year of marriagefilled with hopes, plans, dreams. Flipped through the yellowed pages.
*»I want our own place. Just us. Kids running around. Me deciding what to cook, how to clean.»*
Kids. Shed wanted them, but Oliver always said *not yet*. First, they needed stability. Their own home.
*»Olivers so kind. Never shouts, always listens. Hell be a brilliant dad.»*
A brilliant dad to kids theyd never have, not while they lived under Margarets roof.
Emma shut the notebook and climbed into bed. Oliver came in later, careful not to wake her. She pretended to be asleep.
Next morning at breakfast, Margaret announced:
«Barbaras visiting today. Havent seen her in ages. Emma, tidy up properlyI wont be embarrassed in front of guests.»
«I *do* tidy.»
«Not well enough. Dust everywhere.»
«Where?!»
«Bookshelves, telly, hall mirror*filthy*.»
Emma checked. No dust. But she didnt argue. Just grabbed a cloth and wiped everything down again.
Barbara arrived at luncha loud, confident woman in a bright dress.
«Margaret, love! Howve you been? And this must be Emma! Margarets told me all about you.»
Emma made tea while the women chatted.
«My Lindas on her third husband,» Barbara said. «Says the last one was uselessno backbone.»
«Men these days,» Margaret agreed. «No grit to them.»
Emma, washing dishes, listened.
«And hows your Oliver doing? Got work?»
«Oh, hes employed. Good lad, just too soft. Lets his wife walk all over him.»
Emma nearly dropped a cup.
«Really?» Barbara blinked. «He seems so steady.»
«Steady, yes. But no spine. She snaps at him, and he just takes it. I tell him, ‘Oliver, youre the man of the house!’ And he says, ‘Mum, dont interfere.'»
Barbara tutted. Emma dried her hands slowly, the tea towel clenched in her fists. She walked into the living room, head high, and stood before them.
«Margaret,» she said, voice steady, «Ive made lunch. You and Barbara enjoy it. Im leaving.
Margaret stared. Leaving? Dont be dramatic.
Im not. Im going home.
This *is* your home.
No, Emma said, eyes on Oliver, who sat frozen on the sofa. It never was. I packed a bag last night. Ill come back for the rest when youre out.
Emma, wait Oliver started, but she was already at the door.
She didnt look back.
Outside, the air felt lighter. She walked down the street, not rushing, not crying. Just moving forward.
For the first time in years, she was choosing herself.
