29 April
Im writing this after a particularly exhausting day, hoping that putting it on paper will make sense of the turmoil.
This morning began with Margaret Whitaker slipping into my bedroom and trying on my brandnew rubber boots. Did you need them again? I asked, trying to keep my tone even. She shot me that regal look Ive learned to call the queens stare: a slow, halfsquinting gaze topped with a patronising smile.
Dear, whats the tone? she replied, straightening her scarf before the mirror. Its pouring outside and I only have my fancy party shoes. Isnt it a pity?
Its not about pity, I replied, clenching my hands at my sides, feeling the irritation rise. Its about respecting personal space. I dont wander into your room or take your things.
She pursed her lips and gave me that same look, as if I were a child misbehaving.
We were used to eight people sharing a single room in my day, and no one complained about personal space, she said, as if nostalgia were a defence.
Maybe they didnt complain then, I muttered, but now we live in a different age.
What are you murmuring about? Margaret leaned forward, feigning deafness. Speak up, Im not as spry as I used to be.
I inhaled deeply, trying to calm myself. Living with my motherinlaw for three months has been a trial by fire. We had to give up the flat wed shared because the new build took forever, and the mortgage on our next place forced us to move into Margarets twobedroom flat in Brixton.
Im going to pop to the shop and buy you a pair of rubber boots, I forced a smile. So you wont have to suffer.
Oh dear, dont bother! she waved her hands. My shoe cupboard is already bursting. Better buy a pair for yourself, so you wont have to feel sorry for me.
Her emphasis on your own was unmistakable a subtle reminder that the choice of sharing rested with her.
Fine, Margaret, I said, Ill head to work now. Im late for a meeting.
Again? she shook her head. Andrew will come home tired and hungry, and his wife will be nowhere.
Andrew is a grown man; he can heat his own dinner, I replied, pulling my coat over my shoulders. Everythings already in the fridge.
Stepping out into the damp spring air, I watched the rain turn the wet snow underfoot into a grey mush. Yes, she really does need boots, I thought, making my way to the bus stop.
The workday at the printing firm in Manchester dragged on. As a graphic designer, I usually lose myself in colour swatches and typefaces, but today my mind kept circling back to the kitchen clash, the vanished packet of expensive tea, and the time Margaret accidentally shrank my favourite sweater in the wash.
Looks like youre wound up today, Natalie, a colleague, said as she joined me for lunch. Motherinlaw again?
I managed a weak smile. Just the usual domestic skirmishes. It builds up, you know.
What about Andrew? she asked.
He loves his mum, and I try to stay neutral, I sighed.
Neutral doesnt exist in a family, Natalie shook her head. Sooner or later youll have to pick a side. Better that side be yours, otherwise
Otherwise what? I snapped, feeling a sting of tears. Ill leave him because of his mother?
Not because of the mother, but because of his stance, she corrected. I went through that with my first husband.
I recalled a friend who had divorced after five years, largely because her husband always sided with his mother.
Well manage, I said firmly. The new flat will be finished soon, and things will settle.
Natalie exhaled, doubtful.
That evening I bought ingredients for a carrot cake Andrews favourite planning to bake it on Saturday as a surprise for the whole family. The flat was quiet, a single kitchen lamp casting a warm pool of light. I slipped off my shoes and entered, only to find Margaret at the table, happily digging into a casserole I had prepared for breakfast, the whole dish meant for three.
James! she gasped, as if caught off guard. Back already? I thought youd be later.
The meeting was cancelled, I said, glancing at the almostempty casserole dish. Wheres Andrew?
Hes out with friends, said not to wait for him, Margaret waved a hand. I thought Id have a bite of your casserole. Its lovely, by the way!
I placed the shopping bags on the counter, feeling the urge to rise an hour earlier tomorrow to make a fresh breakfast. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep in on Saturday.
Margaret, that casserole was for breakfast, for everyone, I said calmly.
Oh dear, Im sorry! she flapped her hands, though there was no genuine remorse in her eyes. I thought it was just sitting there. Ill make something else tomorrow. Youre such a brilliant cook!
My lips tightened. She knew exactly what the casserole was for; Id mentioned it at dinner the night before when we were planning the weekend menu.
Alright, Ill go change, I muttered, heading to the bedroom. While unpacking the groceries I realised the chocolate bar Id bought for the cake was missing.
Margaret, have you seen the chocolate? I called back into the kitchen.
She smiled sheepishly. Oops, I took a piece for tea. Thought you wouldnt notice.
Anger rose, not over the chocolate but over the constant, silent erosion of my boundaries.
That was for Andrews cake, I replied shortly.
Just grab another one tomorrow. The shops right across the road, she shrugged.
I nodded and retreated, feeling the sting of being brushed aside.
Later, Andrew came home late, catching me reading in bed.
Hey love, he whispered, planting a kiss on my forehead. How was your day?
It was fine, I said, setting the book aside. And yours?
Great! Met the lads at the pub, had a few pints.
I wondered whether to tell him about the casserole and the chocolate. I didnt want to seem petty.
Is mum still up? he asked, pulling his sweater over his head.
Just in her room, watching TV.
Ill pop in to say hello, he said, heading out.
I could hear Margarets muffled laughter through the walls, wondering how shed spin the story of the breakfast for Andrew.
He returned twenty minutes later, looking relaxed.
Your mum ate your casserole, he said, sliding under the duvet. She says it was to die for.
Yes, I know, I replied tersely. It was for breakfast.
And what now? he asked. Will you make something else? Mum appreciates your cooking!
I looked at him, trying to articulate the deeper issue.
Andrew, it isnt about the casserole. Its that your mum constantly takes my things without asking, eats food Ive set aside for special occasions, and never respects my opinions.
Come off it, James, he waved a hand. Its just a casserole. Mum was hungry.
The chocolate for your cake? She just nabbed it for tea.
What chocolate? he frowned.
I bought it for a surprise cake tomorrow. Your mum just ate it.
And what then? Youre upset because she stole a chocolate? he asked, his tone edging toward irritation.
Its not the chocolate! Its the pattern. Yesterday it was the casserole, the day before my tea, the day before that my boots. Always something mine taken without permission.
He stared at me, bewildered.
Youre serious? You count every little thing? You split everything into mine and hers? Were a family!
Family means respecting each others boundaries, I said quietly. It means asking before you take something, not assuming its yours.
You should be grateful my mum eats your food, he snapped. That means she likes what you cook its a compliment!
I stared at him, my eyes widening. How could he not see the problem?
A compliment? I repeated. So if I make dinner and your mum eats it while were out, thats a compliment, not a sign of disregard?
He rolled his eyes. Stop making a drama out of a casserole!
He got up, grabbed a pillow and announced hed sleep on the sofa, needing an early rise tomorrow. Good night.
I lay there, tears slipping down my cheeks. I had hoped hed understand, that hed stand with me, but he chose his mothers side without a second thought.
The next morning I woke to the smell of pancakes. Margaret was bustling in the kitchen, Andrew sitting at the table with a grin.
Morning, love, he said, as if nothing had happened. Mum decided to treat us.
I forced a smile and took a fork.
Thanks, Mum, she said, placing a plate of pancakes before me. I made some scrambled eggs too, coming right up.
Im only after a coffee, I murmured, not wanting to eat.
What, not hungry? Margaret exclaimed, waving her hands. Ive made a feast! Youll hurt my feelings if you dont eat.
Andrew watched me, waiting for my response. It felt like a test refuse and Id be starting a war.
Alright, I said, picking up a bite.
Good girl! Margaret cooed, patting my head. Youve gotten so skinny, youll fit in a coffin any day.
Andrew chuckled, but said nothing. I chewed mechanically, feeling more like a guest than a resident.
When Margaret left for the shop, I finally found the courage to speak.
Andrew, we need to talk about your mum, I began, sitting opposite him on the sofa.
Again? he winced. Everythings fine. She even made us breakfast.
Its not the breakfast, I said. Its the lack of respect for my boundaries. I feel like a tenant in my own home, not a partner.
He sighed. Mum is used to running the household. Itll take time to adjust. Just be patient; well move into our new flat soon.
What about when we do move? I asked quietly. Will she still drop by and take my things without asking? Eat what Ive set aside for us?
Hell still be your mother, he said, avoiding eye contact. Shell visit, of course.
And you dont see a problem with that? I pressed. Im not against her, Im against the disregard for my space, and you keep turning a blind eye.
Sharing is part of family life, he replied. We have to give and take.
Giving and taking should be consensual, I countered. Not because someone claims ownership without asking.
We stared at each other, the room heavy with unspoken tension. It became clear that, for Andrew, his mother occupied an untouchable position, immune to criticism.
I need some time, I finally said. Ill go stay at Natalies cottage for the weekend.
What? Over a casserole? he laughed, bewildered.
Not a casserole, I said, shaking my head. Because you wont listen to me. I need space to think about us.
He slumped back on the sofa, looking lost.
What should I tell my mum? he asked.
The truth, I replied. That Ive left to consider our future, and you should think too.
I packed a bag and left the flat, feeling an odd lightness despite the suddenness of the decision. Maybe it was impulsive, but it felt right. The cold spring air filled my lungs as I walked to the bus stop. A text from Natalie popped up, confirming the cottage key was with the neighbour. A weekend alone, away from the noise, was exactly what I needed.
When I return, there will have to be a serious talk about what a family really means not sacrifice for the sake of sacrifice, but mutual respect. Even something as small as a breakfast casserole should not become a battlefield.
Lesson learned: love thrives on boundaries, not on the silent acceptance of continual oversteps.
