«Surprise, lovewe’re moving in with my mum,» said John when Emma returned from the hospital, their newborn in her arms.
«Are you mad? What about Michael? We agreedMichael!»
Emma stared at him, her hospital gown hanging loose on her thinner frame, exhaustion and fury tightening her voice. John stood by the window, gripping a cold paper cup of tea, avoiding her gaze.
«Em, please… Mum begged me. It’s her dad’s name. It means everything to her.»
«And what about what means everything to *me*? To *us*? We spent months picking that namereading meanings, arguing, laughinguntil we both loved it! Since when does your mother get a say?»
«Its about respect,» he muttered.
«Respect is *remembering* someone, not forcing a child to carry a name he never chose!» Her voice cracked. «You *promised* me, John!»
«I know, Im sorry. But I couldnt say no to her.» His pleading eyes made her stomach twist. «Lets not fight now. You need rest. Were being discharged tomorrowtheyre waiting for us at home.»
He reached for her, but she pulled away. *Home*. The word rang hollow. Yesterday, shed imagined stepping into their cosy flat, tucking their son into the crib theyd built together. Now, the thought curdled inside her.
The next day, chaos swallowed her doubtsflowers, nurses cheerful send-offs, the blue-ribboned envelope holding their sons birth certificate. John fussed over her, carrying bags, opening car doors. Emma cradled the baby, breathing in his milky scent. *This is happiness. The arguments dont matter.*
Then John drove past their turn.
«Where are you going? You missed it,» she said, unease prickling.
«Were not going home.» He kept his eyes on the road. «Surprise!»
Her chest seized. She knew this street, this peeling-paint doorway. His mothers house.
«What *surprise*? John, whats happening?»
He parked, silence thick except for the babys quiet breaths.
«Surprise, love. Were staying with Mum.» His smile was strained, like hed announced a lottery win. «I thoughtwith the babyyoud need help. And moneys tight while youre on leave.»
Emmas fingers turned ice-cold. This stranger beside her had dismantled her life without a word.
«You decided *for me*? When Im holding our *child*?»
«Em, its for the best! Mums given us the big roomshes even set up the crib!»
The front door swung open. Margaret beamed, rushing to the car. «My darlings! Oh, let me see little Paul!»
*Paul*. The name hit like a slap. The argument, the moveall part of a plan where Emma was just an extra.
Inside, the air smelled of mothballs and something sour. The «big room» was crammed with dark furniture, their crib an awkward afterthought.
«Make yourselves at home!» Margaret chirped. «Ive cleared two shelves for you. John will fetch the rest tomorrow.»
«What *rest*?» Emma whispered.
«Your flat things! Were renting it outevery penny helps!»
Emma looked at John. He shifted guiltily, his eyes begging: *Not now.*
She said nothing. Just laid the baby in the crib, her hands shaking.
Margaret hovered. «Oh, he looks pale! Are you *sure* you have enough milk? My neighbours grandson thrived on formula»
«Im *fine*,» Emma snapped.
Later, with the baby between them, she finally spoke. «How could you do this?»
John exhaled. «Its temporary. Just till youre back at work. Well save, buy a bigger place»
«I dont want her *help*! I want a *husband*, not a man who runs to Mummy!»
«Keep your voice down!» he hissed. «Whats the harm in her calling him Paul? His names Michael on paper!»
She wanted to scream. He didnt understandthis was the last thing she could control.
Days blurred. Margaret wasnt crueljust *helpful*. Too helpful. She barged in at dawn («Up! Time to feed Paul!»), rewashed nappies («Your detergents full of chemicals!»), scoffed at Emmas choices («Whys he in a hat indoors? Youll overheat him!»).
Every comment chipped at Emmas confidence. John returned to a spotless house, dinner ready, his mother cooing over the baby. When Emma complained, he waved her off. «She *loves* us. Be grateful.»
One evening, Emma bathed Michael in chamomile water. Margaret marched in.
«Herbal nonsense! He needs potassium permanganateproper antiseptic!» She dumped purple crystals into the bath.
«Stop!» Emma yanked Michael out. «Youll burn his skin!»
«Nonsense! Ive raised children!»
Emma left, trembling. This wasnt helpit was war.
That night, she met John at the door, bags packed.
«Were leaving.»
His face paled. «Where? Its *night*!»
«Anywhere. My mums. A rental. *Not here.*»
Margaret appeared, shrill. «Ungrateful girl! After all Ive done»
«Thank you,» Emma cut in, voice steady. «But were done.»
Margaret whirled on John. «Youd choose *her* over me?»
He swallowed. «Mum… were going.»
Her scream chased them out. In the car, Emma cried silentlynot from grief, but relief.
Her mother, Helen, took them in without questions. «Come in, loves. Ill put the kettle on.»
Weeks passed. John, remorseful, avoided calls from Margaret. Emma finally breathed. No advice, no criticismjust peace. Michael slept better, fussing less.
One night, John sat beside her. «Im sorry. I thought I was helping… I nearly ruined us.»
«You took the easy way out,» she said softly.
«I did.» He gripped her hand. «I love you. Both of you. No one comes between us again.»
A month later, they reclaimed their flat, paying a penalty to break the lease. Stepping inside, Emma inhaled home.
She adjusted the blanket over Michaels crib. «Sleep well, love,» she murmured. «Its all right now.»
Margaret never forgave them. John visited occasionally, tense and brief. She refused to see her grandson.
Life wasnt perfectmoney was tight, tempers frayed. But it was *theirs*. A fragile, stubborn fortress, built brick by brick. And that was enough.
