My husband hauled his sons blue suitcases up the cramped stairwell of our flat in Battersea Get used to it, he lives here now, and youll be the one feeding him.
Emma was lugging the bags to the fourth floor, swearing at the broken lift. The October rain had seeped through her coat, and all she craved was a hot shower and a moment of peace. Working as an architect at a small practice was exhausting, especially when clients kept changing the brief at the last minute.
The key turned with a stubborn click; the lock was as tired as the building itself. Emma eased the door open and stopped cold. In the narrow hallway two massive blue suitcases ate up almost every inch of space.
Harry? she called, pulling off her soggy boots.
James emerged from the sitting room, his face tighter than usual for a man who normally greeted her with a smile and a question about her day.
Right, youre back. Listen, heres the thing He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured at the luggage. This is my son hes moving in with us now.
Emma hung her coat on the peg, trying to take it in. Harry, Jamess fifteenyearold from his first marriage, lived with his mother in Croydon. In the three years theyd been together the boy had only turned up on weekends, and even then rarely.
What do you mean moving in? Emma asked, tilting her head.
Just like that. Get used to it and youll be the one feeding him. Youre the homemaker, James said, as casually as if he were announcing a new loaf of bread.
Heat rushed to Emmas cheeks. When shed married James three years earlier shed known a teenager might be part of the package, but occasional visits were one thing; a permanent stay was another, especially when the decision arrived without a word exchanged.
You decided it, so youll deal with it, Emma said evenly, fighting the urge to raise her voice.
James blinked, clearly not expecting that reply.
What do you mean? We live together, so
So you tell me what youre doing instead of springing a faitaccompli on me, Emma cut in. Wheres my child?
Emilys at a friends doing homework. Shell be back for dinner.
Emma nodded and moved to the kitchen. Her daughter, Emily, was in Year7 and often spent evenings at her classmate Lucys house; the families had been close since they were both in primary school.
Muffled voices drifted from the sitting room. James was speaking to his son, but the words were indecipherable. Emma fetched food from the fridge. She usually cooked with leftovers in mind James liked a hearty meal, and Emily, at thirteen, could polish off an adult portion.
She boiled enough pasta for two, fried two cutlets, and tossed together a small bowl of salad.
Dinner! she called.
All three came to the table. Harry looked uncertain, shifting his gaze between his father and his new stepmother. Hed grown since their last meeting, taller and broadershouldered, yet still held himself stiffly.
Emma set plates for herself and Emily. The seats opposite James and Harry remained empty.
And for them? James asked, surprised at the vacant spots.
You brought him so you provide for him, Emma replied calmly, ladling pasta onto Emilys plate.
Emily raised an eyebrow but stayed silent. Shed inherited her mothers talent for staying out of adult quarrels unless absolutely necessary.
Harry sat mute, staring at his empty plate. The tension at the table thickened enough to cut with a knife.
Emma, what are you doing? James asked, quieter than usual, his words edged with strain.
Me? Im having dinner. What are you doing?
Harry is a child!
Hes your child. I feed my daughter; you feed your son.
Emma took a bite of cutlet, chewing without taking her eyes off James. He sat, face flushed, fists clenched on the table.
Emily, can I go to Lucys? the girl asked softly.
Of course, love. Just be home by ten.
Emily finished quickly and slipped out into the hallway, the front door slamming behind her.
Dad, Im not really hungry, Harry muttered.
Sit, James snapped. Dont go anywhere.
Emma finished her cutlet and moved on to the salad. Silence stretched. At last James could bear it.
Explain whats happening!
Whats there to explain? You made a decision on your own now live with the consequences.
We share the same flat!
In my flat, Emma corrected. The one I bought before I met you. In my flat, I set the rules.
James rose sharply, knocking his chair over.
Have you lost your mind? Harrys been left without a mother!
What do you mean without a mother? Emma asked, looking up. Did something happen to his mother?
No, shes getting married to an American. Shes moving to the States. Harry refused to fly he wants to stay in England.
I see. And you thought you could shift the responsibility for raising your son onto me?
I thought youd understand!
I do understand. I understand you never asked me before making a decision that affects our household.
Emma began clearing the table; the clatter of plates rang louder than usual.
Harry, go to your room, she said without turning.
He doesnt have his own room! James exploded.
Then let him use yours. Or find a bigger flat.
With what money? Im a metalworker, not an architect! James retorted.
Emma halted, dishes in hand. James earned a modest wage at the factory; Emma earned several times more at the practice, and he knew it well.
Exactly. You didnt buy this flat, you didnt fund it, and you dont get to decide who lives here.
Harry rose slowly, shuffling toward the bedroom, hunched as if trying to disappear.
Emma, think with your head! James warned softly. Where am I supposed to put my son?
With his mother. Let her take him.
He doesnt want to go!
Then to his grandmothers. Rent a room. There are plenty of options.
I dont have that kind of money!
Emma set the dishes in the sink and faced James.
Im not against Harry. Im against you making decisions for me. If you want your son here, lets discuss the terms like adults.
What terms? James asked, bewildered.
The basics. Who buys the groceries, who cooks, who does the laundry, who cleans, who pays the bills now that a third person is living here. Who provides a proper bed, not the sofa. Who attends parentteacher meetings, who handles doctors and tutors.
James stood mute, shifting his weight.
Did you think about any of that when you dragged those suitcases in? Emma continued. Or were you hoping Id shoulder everything while you came home to a hot dinner and ironed shirts?
Thats not what I meant
What did you mean, then?
Well were one family now
Emma sat on a stool, looking straight at James.
In three years youve never once asked my view on raising Harry. You never asked how I felt about him moving in as if this were a hotel. He shows up, eats, sleeps, leaves, never says thank you.
Hes just shy
Maybe. But thats not my problem. Its yours as his father.
So what do you suggest?
Emma opened the fridge, pulling out eggs, bread, and sausage.
I suggest you feed your child. Tomorrow morning well sit down calmly and agree on the conditions for Harry staying here.
James cracked the eggs without a word. Emma slipped into the bedroom. Harry was perched on the edge of the marital bed, staring at his trainers.
Harry, she called.
He looked up, eyes rimmed red.
I have nothing against you, Emma said gently. But decisions that affect everyone must be made together. Do you understand?
He nodded.
Good. Then tomorrow well work out how we can live together.
Emma changed into her nightclothes and went to the bathroom. The mirror reflected the tired face of a thirtysixyearold woman who had suddenly realised that family life could throw more curveballs than a broken lift.
From the kitchen came the hiss of frying eggs and a low mutter. A father was speaking quietly to his son. Emma turned the tap, splashed cold water on her face, and wondered what the next day would bring.
Monday morning, James rose earlier than usual. Emma heard him fumbling in the kitchen, the clatter of pans and a string of curses.
Mom, whats that smell? Emily asked, appearing with a glass of juice.
Your stepdad is making breakfast for his son, Emma replied.
It smells burnt.
Then somethings burnt.
James emerged, face flushed, holding a plate with a charred omelette.
Harry, breakfast is ready! he shouted toward the bedroom.
Harry shuffled out, stared at the blackened mass, and grimaced.
Dad, maybe just toast and butter?
Eat whats on the plate, James snapped, though he knew it was inedible.
Emma quietly got Emily ready for school, kissed her, and saw her off. James left for the factory. Harry stayed alone in the flat his lessons wouldnt start until the next day.
That evening James came home exhausted and famished. As usual Emma cooked for two herself and Emily.
Emma, can you stop this mockery already? James said across the table, his plate empty.
Im not mocking anyone. Im eating, she replied.
Harry was hungry all day!
And where were you all day?
At work!
Good. Then tomorrow leave him money for lunch or cook in the morning, Emma said.
James fell silent, realizing he had no counterargument. After dinner he went to the shop and bought readymade meals sausages, instant noodles, and dumplings.
Tuesday dawned with the same routine. James boiled the dumplings, overcooking them into a mushy mess. Harry poked at the soggy dough with his spoon and sighed.
Dad, can I go to my grandmothers?
Why?
No reason its just boring here.
Bear with it a bit. Youll get used to it.
But Harry never got used to it. He drifted through the flat, watching TV, scrolling on his phone. By midweek he complained that the place felt stale and cramped.
Dad, when is Mom coming back from America? Emily asked.
Shes not coming back, Harry. She lives there now.
Maybe I should fly to her then? Harry asked.
James gave no answer, his patience wearing thin. He wasnt used to cooking, washing, or keeping the flat tidy. By Thursday a mountain of dishes piled up in the sink, laundry lay strewn across the bedroom, and the bin overflowed with empty packets.
Everythings on me! James exploded. Im working, cooking, cleaning!
Welcome to adulthood, Emma said calmly, rinsing her plate.
You can see Im not managing!
I can. And?
Help me!
Why? This was your decision.
James ran a hand through his hair and paced the kitchen.
Youre cruel!
Im consistent.
Harry is a child!
Hes your child. Youre his father. Deal with it.
Emma stood and went to her room. Half an hour later James tried to raise a scene in the bedroom, but each time Emma repeated the same line:
That was your decision.
Friday evening, the landline rang. James snatched the receiver.
Hello, Mum Yes, everythings fine Hows Harry? Hes adjusting The voice on the other end grew louder. Emma caught fragments:
He called me! Hes complaining! Hes going hungry!
Dad, please
Bring him over immediately! Today!
James tried to protest, but his mother would not listen. The call lasted about ten minutes. He hung up, sighing heavily.
Mums taking Harry to her house.
Good, Emma said, not looking up from her book.
Good? You dont care?
Its not that I dont care. Its that I feel a weight lift. The flat will be in order again.
Youre serious?
Absolutely.
Saturday was still drizzling. James packed Harrys things into the same blue suitcases hed brought a week earlier. Harry helped his father, but it was clear the boy felt relief at moving to his grandmothers.
Mrs. Thompson is a good woman, Emma told James. Shell handle it better than you.
Shes a pensioner! Shes seventy!
But experienced. She raised a son; shell raise a grandson.
James zipped the suitcase and straightened up.
Maybe I was wrong somewhere.
Not somewhere. Specifically. You made a decision without consulting me and shifted the responsibility onto my shoulders without my consent.
James dragged the suitcases into the hallway. Harry slipped on his things and stood by the door.
Emma, thank you for letting me stay, he said quietly.
Youre welcome, Harry. You can visit whenever you like, but as a guest when invited.
Harry nodded, catching the subtext.
The door closed behind father and son. Emma was left alone in the quiet flat. She walked through each room, assessing the mess. A thorough cleanup would be needed the men had left quite a trail.
She settled into an armchair and opened the novel shed set aside for a week. The house now smelled of neatness and calm. No one was forced to be fed against their will. No one was dumping their duties onto another.
Around eight, Emily returned, having spent the weekend at Lucys while the family crisis unfolded.
Mom, where is everyone? she asked.
Harrys moved to his grandmothers; your stepdad took him.
Did he tell us?
He will now, Emma smiled.
So were having dinner for two?
For two.
Mother and daughter set the table for two. Emily recounted stories from the weekend, and Emma listened, realizing the week of standoff had not been in vain. James had learned the main rule: in this house, decisions are made together, and no one shoulders anothers responsibilities without consent.
At nine, James came back, looking tired and remorseful.
How are things? Emma asked.
Fine. Mum cooked him soup for the week. She was happy to have her grandson.
Thats good. Mrs. Thompson loves caring for someone.
And you dont? James asked quietly.
I do. But only for those I choose, and only when Im asked, not forced.
James nodded and sat at the table. Emma placed a bowl of soup before him. He looked up, surprised.
Thats for you. Because today you did the right thing you found the boy a suitable place without dumping the burden on me.
James took the spoon and ate. Over the week he came to understand that parenting is hard work, and forcing that work onto others is unfair.
Emma, Im sorry, he said between bites.
For what?
For not thinking, for not asking, for deciding for you.
Good. The important thing is it wont happen again.
It wont.
Emma poured herself tea and sat opposite her husband. Peace and order had returned to the flat. Most importantly, James had learned his lesson. He now knew his wife would never let anyone decide for her, and she would never take on someone elses duties without her own consent.
The evening passed quietly. The three of them had dinner, watched the telly, and planned the next day. No one was forced to eat. No one complained about discomfort. Harmony was restored in Emmas home, built on mutual respect and shared decisions.
