Your mum can stay with us; yours should go up to the cottage, Ian decided, arms crossed in front of the telly.
Hey, how about a theatre night on Saturday? Poppy asked, stirring the soup on the stove. Theres a new play Liza said its brilliant.
Ian ripped his eyes away from the football match and looked at her.
Theatre? Im knackered after the week, he muttered. Im not really in the mood.
Youre always tired, Poppy sighed. We havent gone out together in ages.
Fine, well see, Ian grumbled, turning back to the screen.
Poppy pressed her lips together. See, later, maybethe classic British deferrals. Fifteen years of marriage had taught her to expect them, though she didnt have to accept them.
Ian, she called, switching off the stove, we really need to talk.
What about? he asked without looking away from the match.
My mum called. Her cottage roof is leaking after the rain, and the builders havent started yet. I thought maybe she could move in with us for a couple of weeks until the work is done?
Ian furrowed his brow.
My mum called too. Shes about to start a renovation and wanted to move in as well.
Poppy sat at the kitchen table.
Well, let both of them stay. Theres room enough.
No, Ian shook his head. Two mums in one flat is too much. Theyll end up stepping on each other’s toes.
They wont, Poppy retorted. They get along fine.
Ian got up, poured himself a glass of water, drank it, and turned back to Poppy.
My mum will live with us. Yours should head for the cottage, the husband declared, as firmly as if hed just signed a contract.
Poppy felt a chill creep up her spine.
So youre saying my mum will sleep under a leaky roof while yours enjoys our cosy flat?
Exactly, Ian shrugged. My mum is sixtyfive and cant be out on a building site any more. Yours is younger, shell manage.
My mum is sixtytwo! Poppy snapped. Whats a threeyear difference?
There is a difference, Ian said stubbornly. Besides, my mum is ill and needs peace and quiet.
My mums not ill, shes got a dodgy blood pressure and a sore back! Poppy retorted.
Everyones got aches, Ian waved it off. Bottom line: my mum arrives the day after tomorrow, and yours stays at the cottage.
He turned back to the telly. Poppy stood in the kitchen, stunned that he could make such a decision without even a word.
Igor I mean, Ian, we havent finished talking, she said.
Nothing more to say, he flicked channels. Its settled.
It isnt! This is my flat too! I live here, I have a say! Poppys voice rose.
The lease is in my name, Ian replied coldly. I decide.
Poppys smile was forced. Wonderful, she whispered through clenched teeth. Just wonderful.
She fled to the bedroom, slammed the door, and sank onto the bed, hands covering her face. Anger and frustration boiled overshe wanted to scream, cry, even hurl the dishesbut she stayed silent.
That evening they barely spoke. Poppy set the table in silence, Ian ate in silence, then retreated to the TV. When they finally went to bed, each turned to their own wall.
The next morning Ian left for work without a goodbye. Poppy phoned her own mum.
Mum, Im sorry, but you cant come up to us. Ians mum also needs a place, and theres no room, she said.
Dont worry, love, her mother, Maggie Clarke, replied cheerfully. Ill just stay at the cottage. Ill manage.
But the roof is leaking! Poppys voice trembled.
Ill slap a tarp on it, set buckets underneath. Ill get through it, her mum assured. Dont worry.
Poppy hung up, tears streaming. Her mum would be stuck under a dripping roof while Ians mother lounged in their warm flat. And Ian didnt seem to mind; his mother was his priority.
An hour later Ian called.
Mums arriving this evening. Get the guest room ready, he said.
Will do, Poppy replied tersely before hanging up.
She quickly freshened the spare room, laid fresh linens, and arranged a bouquetmechanically, without thought.
That night Agnes Whitaker, Ians mother, arriveda plump lady with a perpetually disgruntled expression.
Hello, dear Poppy, she kissed Poppy on the cheek. Oh, the journey! The driver was a right pain, shouting the whole way.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitaker, Poppy said, helping her remove her coat. The rooms all set.
Sweetheart! Agnes swooped into Ians arms. Ive missed you!
Ian beamed, hugging his mum, asking about the trip. Poppy watched, feeling the room shrink around her.
During dinner Agnes complained about the renovation costs.
Can you believe they want one hundred thousand pounds for the whole lot? Its daylight robbery! I told them to find someone else, she fumed.
Those are normal rates these days, Ian noted.
Normal? In my day you could buy a whole flat for that! Agnes snorted. Now you pay three fortunes for a knob of plaster!
Poppy ate her soup in silence while Agnes continued her tirade about prices, the government, neighbours, and the weather. Ian nodded sympathetically.
Why so gloomy, Poppy? Agnes asked abruptly. You look downcast.
Im just tired, Poppy replied.
Youre tired? Agnes echoed. I was juggling three jobs at your age and never complained!
Poppy kept quiet. Arguing with Agnes was pointlessshed always win the debate.
After dinner Agnes retired to her room, and Poppy washed the dishes. Ian leaned against her.
Whats with you, love? You look angry.
Im not angry, Poppy said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never asked my opinion, she finally faced him. You just decided, and thats it. My mum will be drenched in rain, while yours basks here.
Dont exaggerate, Ian muttered. Your mum will manage.
What if the roles were reversed? Poppy wiped her hands on a towel. If I said my mum would come and yours stay in the cottage?
Thats different, Ian grumbled.
How?
My mum is older and sicker.
Three years older! Poppy snapped. Its not a mountain!
Ian waved his hand and stalked back to the telly. Poppy stayed in the kitchen, wondering whether she should just pack and move to her mums cottage, leaving Ian with his cherished mother.
She shook the thought awaythis was her home too.
The next morning Agnes got up early, rummaging around the kitchen. Poppy woke to the clatter of pots.
Morning, Agnes called, digging through cupboards. Poppy, wheres the sieve? I want to make porridge.
In the right-hand cupboard, top shelf, Poppy answered.
Agnes pulled out a mountain of dishes.
Good heavens, what a mess! How do you find anything in here? she exclaimed.
I manage, Poppy replied evenly.
We should reorganise everything, Agnes declared, already moving things.
No need, Poppy said, gently taking her hand. Im used to it this way.
Youre used to chaos, arent you? No wonder Ians always grumbling! Agnes sniffed.
Poppy clenched her fists, took a deep breath, and spoke calmly.
This is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and it works for me.
Fine, fine, dont get your knickers in a twist, Agnes said, waving it off. I just want whats best.
Poppy retreated to the bathroom, stared at her reflectiontired eyes, dark circles, a strained smile. She felt utterly exhausted.
Ian left for work, and Poppy stayed at home with Agnes. The older woman spent the morning commenting on everything.
These curtains are ancient; we need new ones. The sofas sagging; its time for a replacement. The wallpaper in the hallway is peelingwhy not readhere it? The carpets dustywhen was the last time it was vacuumed?
Poppy listened in silence, thinking of her own mum, who never meddled or criticised when she visited.
By lunchtime Agnes announced, Ill make my famous bolognese! Ian loves it!
She commandeered the whole kitchenpots, pans, bowls everywhere. Poppy tried to help.
Should I chop something?
No, Ill do it myself! Agnes snapped. You never cut things properly anyway!
Poppy slipped onto the balcony, dialled her mum.
Mum, how are you?
Im fine, love, Maggie said brightly. Ive put buckets under the leak and stretched a tarp. The rain seems to have stopped for now.
Mum, could you maybe come up? We could sort things out
No, dear, I can manage. I hear your voice, and I know youre coping without me. Dont worry, Maggie replied.
Poppy hung up, tears flowing. Her mum would be sitting under a leaky roof, while her motherinlaw lived in comfort. Was that fair?
That evening Ian arrived home. Agnes greeted him with a triumphant shout.
Sweetheart! Ive cooked your favourite bolognese!
Ian raved, Delicious! This is the best bolognese Ive ever had!
Poppy ate in silence. Was her own cooking suddenly inferior? Shed been feeding Ian for fifteen years without complaint.
Are you saying Im a bad cook? she blurted.
No, love, its justyour mums bolognese is legendary. Ive loved it since I was a lad, Ian said, clueless.
Fine, Poppy set her fork down. Enjoy.
She retreated to the bedroom, stared at the ceiling, and thought, Here I am, cooking, cleaning, trying to please, and Im still not valued. Mums soup wins every time.
A week later Agnes had fully settledrearranged the kitchen, hung her towels in the bathroom, claimed a shelf in the fridge. She rose early, rattling pots, preparing breakfast for her son, and criticised anything Poppy did.
Poppy, why is Ians shirt wrinkled? Cant you iron?
Poppy, the bathroom floor is wet! When did you last clean?
Poppy, youve put too much salt in the soup! How can anyone eat that?
Poppy swallowed her frustration, endured the remarks, clenched her teeth.
Then her own mum called, sounding weak.
Love, Ive got a feverthirtyeight degrees. I think I caught a chill, Maggie said.
Whats your temperature? Poppy asked, alarmed.
Just a low fever, Maggie replied. Dont worry.
Poppy hung up and went to Ian, who was glued to his computer.
Mums ill. Shes at the cottage, and she needs us to pick her up, Poppy said.
Pick her up where? Ian asked without looking away. We already have a mum living here.
Tell your mum to move out! Poppy snapped. My mum is sick!
My mum isnt moving anywhere, Ian said coldly. Her renovation isnt finished.
My mum cant be sick at the cottage! Poppys anger boiled over. Do you even hear yourself?
I hear, Ian finally looked up. Your mum is exaggerating, as usual. Thirtyeight isnt a temperature.
Shes sixtytwo! She has blood pressure, a weak heart! She cant be out in the cold! Ian snapped. Dont shout at me. I said no. End of story.
Poppy felt as if shed been living with a stranger for fifteen years.
Fine, she whispered. Then Ill go to my mums cottage and stay until she recovers.
Go, Ian said flatly. Just leave dinner for us.
She packed a bag, prepared three days worth of food, and listed where everything was in the kitchen. Agnes watched her pack.
Leaving for long?
I dont know, Poppy answered. My mums ill and needs me.
Wholl look after Ian? Agnes asked, indignant.
You, Poppy said, youre his mum.
She left for the cottage. There, Maggie lay with a fever, coughing, feeling weak. Poppy lit the old stove, boiled broth, and made her tea with honey.
Why did you come, love? Maggie asked feebly. Ians alone here.
Not alonehis mums here too, Poppy replied, pulling the blanket tighter. Youre the priority.
Three days passed. Poppy tended to her mum, cooking, cleaning, giving medicine. Ian called once, asking when shed be back, then never again.
When Maggie improved, Poppy decided to return. She walked into the flat to see dishes piled high, pots soaking, and Agnes lounging on the sofa, eyes glued to the telly.
Well, look whos back, Agnes muttered. We were starving.
Wheres Ian? Poppy asked.
At work, of course. Im here alone, no one to cook or clean for me, Agnes replied.
Poppy moved to the kitchen, started washing dishes, feeling a surge of angerwhile she was caring for her sick mum, these two had just been waiting for a housekeeper to return.
That evening Ian came home.
Finally! he exclaimed. Mum was a mess without you.
Hello to you too, Poppy said coldly. My mums fine, thanks for asking.
Good to hear, Ian said, taking off his shoes. Whats for dinner?
Poppy stared at him long enough to make him squirm.
Nothing. I havent cooked, she said.
What? Ive been home all day! Ian protested. Youre supposed to be here!
Ive been home for half an hour, Poppy snapped. I came back, tidied up after you two. If youre hungry, make something yourself.
Ian was flustered. Poppy, whats wrong?
Im tired, she said simply. Tired of being a servant. Either cook yourself or let my mum do itthe one who actually matters.
She walked to the bedroom and shut the door. Ian pounded, demanding answers, but she stayed shut.
The next morning she dressed and announced, Im moving back to my mums. Ill stay there until I decide what to do next.
Youve gone mad! Ian shouted, eyes wide. Whats all this drama about?
You chose your mum over me, Poppy replied calmly. Your mum gets the flat, my mum gets the leaky roof. Im done being treated like a housemaid.
Dont talk nonsense! Ian protested.
Its not nonsense, she said, grabbing her bag. Its the truth. Im leaving.
Agnes burst from her room. Poppy, where are you off to? Whats happened?
Nothing, Poppy said, slipping on her coat. I just realised Im not valued here, so Im leaving.
She stepped out of the flat, the lift doors closing behind her, a strange sense of relief washing over her. For the first time in ages she did exactly what she wanted.
Her mum met her at the gate, surprised.
Love, whats happened? she asked.
Poppy told her everything. Her mum listened, nodding, sighing.
Maybe Im being harsh, Maggie said gently. Its your husband, after all.
Its my husband, Poppy replied, taking her mothers hand. I spent fifteen years living for himcooking, cleaning, tolerating his moods. When I had to choose between your health and his mums comfort, he chose his mum. Im not important to him, and neither am I to his mum. Only his mum matters.
Maggie sighed. Perhaps youre right. Stay here, rest, sort out your feelings.
A week later Ian called every day, begging her to return. She stopped answering. Eventually he drove to the cottage.
Poppy, stop this! he shouted at the gate. Come back home!
Poppy stepped out.
I wont go back until you understand something simple, she said.
Whats that?
That no one in a family is more or less important. You cant put one mum above another. Im not a servant; Im a person with feelings, she said firmly. And I deserve respect.
Ian was silent, then asked quietly, Will you really not come back?
No, not untilI will only come back if we learn to live as partners, not as master and servant.
