June 14
I woke with the familiar knot in my chest, the one that tightens every time the house feels more like a shared attic than a home. Tonight was the big corporate dinner at the Ritz in Mayfair, and I was already standing at the kitchen door, watching Blythe pace back and forth, glancing at her watch as if the clock itself might finally grant her a reprieve.
Are we ever going to be on time? she snapped, her voice edged with impatience. The event starts in twenty minutes!
From the bedroom Andrew called out, Just a momentlet me fix my tie. He added with a sigh, We would have left already if you hadnt changed your dress three times.
Blythe huffed, Dont start now! I want to look decent at your company dinner, not like a mouse in a grey coat.
He stepped into the hallway, tugging the knot of his tie tighter. At fortyfive he still kept a trim silhouette, though silver was beginning to fringe his temples.
You always look great, he said softly, the words a gentle balm. Especially when youre not worrying yourself.
Before she could answer, Blythes mother, Margaret, appeared from the kitchen, a steaming mug of tea in her hands.
Where are you two heading all dressed up? she asked, eyes sweeping over them.
Its Andrews company dinner, Mum, Blythe corrected, adjusting her earrings.
Ah, right, Margaret sipped her tea. Why so late? Its already nine oclock.
Were in a rush, Andrew said, trying to keep his voice even while the pressure inside him boiled. Blythe, should we take a cab or do you want to drive?
Take a cab. Id like you to relax a bit, Blythe replied, pulling out her phone.
Exactly, Margaret interjected. Men always think a drink solves everything, but responsibility? They hide in the bushes.
Andrew clenched his teeth, counting to ten. Every comment from his motherinlaw felt like a fresh accusation, even when she was merely talking about the weather.
Please, Mum, Blythe whispered, casting an apologetic glance at me.
Fine, Ill keep quiet, Margaret said, retreating to the kitchen but leaving the door ajar.
The cab will be here in five minutes, Blythe announced, slipping her phone into her evening bag.
Got the keys? I asked.
Yes, everythings ready.
Margaret reentered, leaning against the doorway. When will you be back? Do I need to lock the front door for the night?
No need, Mum. We have the spare keys.
And what if you lose them? Or have one too many drinks? she shot back, skepticism in her tone.
We wont lose them, I snapped. I know my limits.
Everyone says that until something happens
The knock on the door interrupted the escalating tension. The cab pulled up, and I exhaled a breath I didnt know Id been holding.
Dont stay out too late! Margaret called after us.
In the back seat, Blythe squeezed my hand. Sorry about Mum. She just worries.
Of course, I said, watching the streetlights flicker past. The night outside felt both distant and oddly familiar, a reminder of how often I longed to blend into the crowd without being scrutinised.
Three months ago Margaret moved in after Blythes father passed away. What was meant to be temporary quickly became permanent, and our threebedroom flat started to feel like a cramped cage.
The dinner itself was splendidcrystal chandeliers, soft live jazz, colleagues in their finest attire. Blythe shone in a dark navy dress, turning heads as she chatted with the directors wife.
The director, Mr. Victor Sinclair, stopped by the bar, Blythe later told me. He said, What a wonderful wife you havetruly a lady.
I felt a swell of pride. Thank you, I replied, smiling at her. Weve been married fifteen years this April.
Victor nodded appreciatively. Impressive. Any children?
No, I admitted, the memory of endless medical appointments and empty nurseries flashing through my mind. Weve tried, but it just hasnt worked out.
The topic always brought a shadow over our celebrations.
I kept my drink to two glasses of wine, mindful of Margarets relentless commentary. By eleven I was ready to leave.
Shall we stay a bit longer? Blythe suggested, her eyes alight with the rhythm of a song that had just begun.
Just half an hour, I agreed. We still have work tomorrow.
We swirled on the dance floor, the music pulling us back to our younger days. In that moment, the world felt kinder, and the constant intrusion of my motherinlaw seemed a distant echo.
We got home just after midnight, the flat still bright despite the hour. Margarets voice greeted us at the doorway.
I thought Id have to call the police, she said, eyes narrowed.
It was just a corporate dinner, Mum, Blythe replied wearily.
In my day respectable folk werent out this late, Margaret muttered. And youre still bringing home the spirit, Andrew.
I only had two glasses, I said, striving for calm.
Everyone says that.
Blythe stepped in, Lets talk tomorrow, Mum.
Margaret sighed dramatically. My opinion matters to no one here.
I slipped into the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the lingering tension. Fifteen years of marriage, and Id never felt this strained. When I emerged, Blythe was already in bed.
Dont mind Mum, she whispered. Shes still coping with the loss of your father.
I understand, I replied, lying beside her. But this has been going on for three months now. We cant even have a proper conversation without her hovering.
Well give her time, she said, stroking my hand. Shell adjust.
I wanted to tell her I was scared of adjustingto endless criticism, to having to account for every step, to losing any sense of personal space. I kept quiet. Blythe drifted to sleep, and I faced a long, demanding workday.
Morning arrived with the smell of fried fishsomething Ive despised since childhood, and Margaret was all too happy to remind me of that.
Good morning, she grumbled, setting a hefty portion of fish on a plate. Breakfast will be ready soon.
Thanks, but Ill grab a bite at the office, I said, pouring coffee. Im in a rush.
Always the busy one, Margaret sighed, as if my coffee were insufficient for a senior manager.
Will Blythe have breakfast at home? she added, placing the fish slice before me. A proper wife should eat at home, not like some frantic rabbit.
I finished my coffee silently and headed out, meeting Blythe still halfasleep in the hallway.
Leaving already? she asked, surprised.
Yes, a lot to do, I replied, kissing her cheek. Your mum made fish again.
Ugh, not again, she winced. Ill talk to her later.
I doubt itll help, I muttered, the fatigue evident in my voice.
The workday stretched on, my thoughts constantly drifting back to home. At lunch, Blythe called.
Hey, hows it going? her voice sounded strained.
My mum went through my wardrobe, saying she was tidying up, I said, irritation slipping through. I told her I dont like anyone touching my stuff, and she took it personally.
She just wants to help, Blythe defended. Shes always looking for something to do.
Let her stick to her own affairs! I raised my voice before remembering the office around us. Ill call back later.
I stared out the window, wondering if we should ask Margaret to move back into her old flat. She had sold it soon after her husband died, saying the memories were too heavy, and now we seemed trapped with no easy exit.
That evening I stayed late at the office, avoiding the thought of returning to a house where every corner felt watched. When I finally walked in, Blythe met me with a guilty look.
Something happen? I asked, taking off my shoes.
Mum accidentally broke your model airplane, she said quietly. The one you brought back from Germany.
My heart stopped. That Messerschmitt replica had been my pride, painstakingly assembled over months.
Accidentally? I repeated, disbelief sharpening my tone.
She was vacuuming and knocked it off the shelf, Blythe explained. She said she wanted to tidy because she knew Id be late.
Where is she now? I asked, anger rising.
At the neighbours, she said shed return when I calmed down.
I entered the study to find the shattered pieces scattered across the deskwings snapped, fuselage split in two. The months of careful work lay in ruin.
This is the last straw, I murmured, staring at the broken model.
Andrew, please, Blythe pleaded, stepping behind me. She didnt mean it.
Its not about the plane, I turned to her, voice firm. Its about your mother not respecting our space, our rules, our relationship. She meddles in everything.
Shes only worried about us, Blythe tried to argue, but the conviction had left her voice.
No, shes controlling, I insisted. I cant live like this any longer.
What do you mean? her eyes widened with fear.
Either your mother moves out, or we divorce, I said, the ultimatum hanging heavy in the room. Im serious. Im at my limit.
Blythe flinched as if struck.
You cant be serious! Youre trying to kick my mum out?
Im not kicking her out. She could rent a flat nearby. Well help her financially, visit her, but we cant keep living under one roof.
What if I choose my mum? she whispered.
Then well have to part, I replied, the words feeling both cruel and necessary. Ive made you my priority for fifteen years, but the last three months Ive felt like a guest in my own home.
She began to cry, Its unfair! Mum is alone, she needs support!
My wife is what I need, I said, moving closer. I need a home where I can unwind, not constantly brace for another comment.
Just then the front door slammed; Margaret stormed in, having heard our voices.
Ah, here she comes, she began, as if she could sense the accusations. Probably already told Blythe how terrible I am? I only wanted the best.
Mum! Blythe shouted. Not now, please.
When will you finally listen to your husbands side of the story? Margaret retorted.
Enough, I interrupted, surprised at my own calm. Margaret, lets sit down and talk like adults.
She fell silent, surprised by the invitation. We moved to the sitting room, each taking a seatme in the armchair, Blythe and her mum on the sofa.
I understand how hard it is to lose a husband after many years, I began. But you must also see our perspective. Blythe and I have built a life together for fifteen years, and now its at risk.
Because of me? Margaret scoffed.
Yes, I said plainly. Because of the constant control, the remarks, the intrusion. I feel like an outsider in my own house.
This is my home too now, she declared stubbornly.
Thats exactly why we need to discuss it, I continued, keeping my tone even. I think it would be better for you to live separately.
You want to throw my daughters mother onto the street? Margaret exclaimed, hands waving.
No one is being thrown out, I replied patiently. We can help you find a nearby flat, visit often, support you financially.
What if I refuse? she asked, crossing her arms.
Then Blythe and I cant continue living together, I said, looking at my wife. Ive already told her what that means.
Blackmail! Margaret shouted. Blythe, youre letting this happen?
Blythes tearstreaked face searched mine. I dont know what to do, Mum. I love you both, but Andrew is rightthese months have been hard for everyone.
So you want me to leave? Margaret asked, hurt seeping through.
I want us all to be happy, Blythe whispered. Right now, no one is.
A heavy silence settled. Margaret stared between us, as if seeing us for the first time.
I never thought it would get this bad, she admitted finally. I thought I was helping.
We appreciate your care, I said gently. But sometimes care crosses into overbearing.
She lowered her head. After my husband died I feared being alone, feared the silence. Thats why I tried to involve myself in everythingto feel needed.
Blythe embraced her mother. We love you, Mum. Youll always be part of our lives. But maybe Andrews rightperhaps its better if you live nearby, but not under our roof.
Margaret was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. Perhaps youre right. I didnt want to admit it, but I have taken too much liberty. Its hard to accept that Im no longer the centre of my daughters world.
Youll always be important to us, I said. We just need to respect each others boundaries.
We talked long into the night about plans, about moving, about how to keep family ties strong without suffocating each other. For the first time in three months I felt heard, and I even began to see Margaret not as an enemy but as a lonely woman terrified of irrelevance.
The next day we found a cosy onebed flat in a neighbouring block. We paid the deposit, helped Margaret pack, and within a week she was settled in her new place.
Are you still mad at me for the ultimatum? Blythe asked as we returned to our flat after the move.
For what? I replied, surprised.
For giving you that hard line.
Sometimes you have to be firm to protect what truly matters, I said, pulling her close. I didnt want to lose you, but I couldnt keep living like this.
You know, Blythe mused, Mum sounds almost happy now. She mentioned joining a seniors hobby club.
See? She needed her own life, not just to look after us.
We settled onto the sofa, the quiet of our own space finally feeling like a blessing. Blythes phone buzzeda message from Margaret with a photo of her new living room, bright with fresh flowers and framed pictures.
It looks lovely, she wrote.
It seems weve managed it after all, I thought, feeling the tension of recent months melt away. Sometimes you have to push to the edge to discover a new path, and even the toughest ultimatums can lead to a happier ending for everyone.
