**Diary Entry, 12th November**
My husband brought his mother to live in our tiny flat.
Mums going to stay with us for a while, Andrew said, shifting awkwardly in our cramped hallway. Her pipes burst, and the repairs will take time. She cant exactly live on the street, can she?
Emily froze, clutching a towel, her damp hair darkening the shoulders of her old dressing gown. Behind Andrew stood his mother, Margaret, with two enormous suitcases and a box tied up with string.
Hello, love, Margaret said cheerily, as if she didnt notice Emilys stunned expression. Dont worry, it wont be long. Once the plumbers finish, Ill be off. A month, maybe two.
A *month*? In a thirty-square-metre flat where the kitchen was the size of a cupboard, and the bathroom was barely big enough to turn around? Emily felt a knot tighten in her stomach.
Margaret, lovely to see you, she forced a smile. But are you sure youll be comfortable here? Maybe we could find you a room with one of your friends?
Oh, dont be silly, dear, Margaret waved her off, stepping inside. At my age, whos got spare rooms? Most of my friends can hardly get about themselves. Besides, I wouldnt want to impose.
*But imposing on us is fine*, Emily thought but bit her tongue.
Andrew gestured to the corner. Well put your things here, Mum. You can have the sofa, and Em and I will take the fold-out.
Absolutely not! Margaret huffed. Ill sleep on the fold-out. You two need a proper bed.
Mum, your backs bad. You cant sleep on that thing, Andrew said firmly.
Emily watched silently, feeling like a stranger in her own flattechnically *hers*, inherited from her grandmother before they married. But that didnt matter now. Andrew had made the decision without even asking.
Ill put the kettle on, she muttered, retreating to the kitchen, where the fridge, stove, and table for two barely fit. Margaret, you must be hungry after the journey?
Oh, dont fuss. I had a sandwich on the coach, Margaret said, already unpacking onto the armchair. Tell me, how do you manage in this shoebox? Andrew says youre fine, but you cant swing a cat in here. You ought to be thinking about a proper house.
Emily pressed her lips. Money was a sore point. Andrews wages as a mechanic and her teachers salary barely covered bills, let alone a mortgage.
Mum, weve talked about this, Andrew sighed.
When *will* you talk about it? Margaret shook her head. Youre thirty-two, Emilys twenty-eight. Time to start a family, but where would you put a baby in this place?
Emilys cheeks burned. Another sore subjectfour years married, and Margaret never missed a chance to remind them she wanted grandchildren.
Not now, Mum, Andrew shot Emily an apologetic look.
Margaret scoffed but busied herself with her things.
Emily escaped to the kitchen, breathing deeply. She loved Andrew, truly. But his inability to say *no* to his mother drove her mad. Bringing her here without warning, without *asking*
The kettle boiled. Grey November clouds loomed over the council flats outside the window, mirroring her mood.
Emily, dear, can I help? Margarets voice made her jump.
No, thanks. Just thinking.
About what?
Work. Difficult class this year.
Margaret tutted. In my day, children had *respect*. Now its all rudeness and no discipline.
Emily said nothing, pouring tea. Margaret always romanticised the pastarguing was pointless.
Andrew poked his head in. Mum settling in? Oh, teabrilliant. Early shift tomorrow, so Ill turn in.
Of course, love, Margaret patted his arm. Well have a nice chat, just us girls.
*Perfect*, Emily thought.
How are things really? Margaret asked bluntly once Andrew left. He never tells me anything.
Fine. Just life.
Hmph. Doesnt look fine. Hes lost weight. Are you feeding him properly?
Emily sipped her tea to hide her irritation. We both work late. Not always time to cook.
In my day, wives managed. Margaret sighed. Now its all takeaways and ready meals. No wonder everyones ill.
Emily clenched her jaw. Patience. For Andrews sake.
Ill cook more, she said flatly. Any of his childhood favourites youd recommend?
Margaret brightened, launching into recipesshepherds pie, proper roast beef, Yorkshire puddingsnone of which Andrew had ever mentioned.
Finally excusing herself, Emily locked the bathroom door and exhaled. How would they survive this? No privacy, no space to breathe.
That night, squeezed onto the fold-out beside Andrew, she seethed. *No one asked me.*
Morning chaos followed. One bathroom, three people. Margaret, an early riser, had washed Emilys favourite blouse*with detergent*ruining the wine stain treatment.
Its *ruined*, Emily hissed in the bathroom.
Andrew sighed. Ill buy you a new one.
Its not about the blouse! She touches my things without asking. You shouldve *warned* me.
Im sorry. Its temporary.
But it wasnt. Margaret rearranged cupboards, criticised Emilys cooking, even dictated TV schedules.
The last straw came Sunday morning. Emily walked in to find Margaret rummaging through her makeup.
What are you doing? she snapped.
Oh, youre up! I needed cream for this rash
*Ask* next time. These are *my* things.
Margaret rolled her eyes. Honestly, whats the fuss? Were family.
Not an excuse.
Andrew coughed. Mum, shes right.
*Right*? Since when do you take her side over your own mother?
Emily stormed out.
In the park, Andrew called five times before she answered.
Where *are* you?
Thinking. About us. I cant live like this.
Dont be dramatic. Its just makeup.
Its *everything*! Im suffocating. Her voice broke. Im renting a room. Until the repairs are done. Then we talk.
Silence. Then
Youd really leave over this?
To save us? Yes.
She hung up. Relief washed over her. For once, shed chosen *herself*.
Maybe time apart would make Andrew seea marriage was two people, not three. Maybe Margaret would learn boundaries.
But tonight, she wouldnt go back.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldnt mean losing yourself. Sometimes, walking away is the only way to find your way back.
