June 14
It feels strange to write this down, but I need to make sense of the last few weeks. I never imagined wed be dealing with property paperwork again, let alone moving to the country, but here we are.
Mabel Parker my motherinlaw showed up early on Saturday with boxes of wallpaper and a halfdozen knickknacks. You wanted me to lug all this heavy stuff, she said, eyeing me with that familiar, slightly condescending look. George, didnt you tell her? I could feel my cheeks flush. It was supposed to be a surprise, I stammered, still in my nightgown, trying to keep the situation from spiralling.
She sniffed, measured me with her gaze, then turned to George. Whats the matter? Got a mouthful of water? Tell your wife about our little surprise. I stared at George, waiting for an explanation. He finally spoke, though his tone was vague: Im moving in with you for a few months. The words hit me like a cold splash of water. I hadnt even heard a whisper of this plan.
Before I could process that, she slipped off her coat and declared, Im staying here, too. I was still trying to absorb the first shock when another one landed: And youre coming to my house as well. She glided into the kitchen, while I clutched Georges hand and whispered, Whats happening? We never discussed any of this. He shrugged, as if nothing had changed, and muttered, Mom suggested it. Dont worry, well go later.
I retreated to the bedroom, not ready to argue openly with Mabel. As evening fell, the tension eased a little. George finally sat down and said, Brynlee, you have a chance to shape the renovation. Think of it as a portfolio piecefuture clients will love it. He painted the picture of a modest remodel in one room, enough for Mabel to feel comfortable, while wed still have a place to live. Do I have to do the work? I asked, halfamused, halfexasperated. You need a job, love, and were looking out for you, he replied, as if that made everything simple.
The idea of being whisked away to a rural cottage for months felt absurd. I love my flat in London, the bustle, the convenience. Yet George reminded me that Mabel couldnt handle construction dust, and wed need to supervise the workers anyway. Who owns the house? I pressed. He answered, Its in my name on paper, but the land belongs to Mabel because you never inherited it. The legal tangle made my head spin.
Mabel, overhearing our quiet argument, stepped into the hallway and said, You should have kept quiet, George. You never thought about your sons feelings. I was taken aback by her sudden protectiveness. Picked? What do you mean? I asked. She laughed, Of course I picked him. Hed be lost without us. And now youre talking about inheritance?
The conversation turned into a standoff. I told George, I think youve sidelined him. Youve taken everything from him. He stayed silent, caught between his mother and his wife. I pressed on, If you marry me, will you still be fair? Mabels laugh rang out, Marry? Oh, dear. She softened a bit, then said, Finelets finish the house, transfer the flat to you, and Ill put the country house in my name. I felt a strange relief; at least wed have a place of our own.
By the next morning we were packing, the car filled with tools, wallpaper, and a few of Mabels sentimental items. The journey to Kent was uneasy, but the promise of a fresh start kept me going. The house itself was a modest, twobedroom cottage with faded paint and a garden that needed more than a little love. George suggested we take a loan to cover the renovations, promising that the flat would eventually be ours.
I threw myself into the work, finding a strange satisfaction in measuring, sanding, and choosing paint hues. A garden must have a flowerbed, I told myself, already imagining roses and lavender. Each evening I called George from the site, excitedly describing what wed done: Weve put up the new wallpaper; Ive ordered the roses. He warned, Thats beyond our budget, love. Mum will plant them herself. Still, I felt a growing attachment to the place.
One night, after a long day, I confessed to George, What if we stay here? The house is already ours; we wont have to repaper everything again. He hesitated, The flat is cramped, but the cottage offers space. I promised to speak with Mabel. The thought of living in the countryside, with fresh air and room to breathe, began to feel like a dream finally within reach.
The next morning Mabel arrived unannounced, demanding to see the progress. Brynlee, why didnt you tell me you were moving in? she asked, eyes flashing. I tried to explain, but she cut me off, Were staying in the cottage. Its Georges, not yours. You cant expect us to leave just because youd rather be in the city. Her fury was palpable, but I stood my ground, remembering why Id fought for this home.
George and I sat in silence for a long while, each lost in thoughts of what we truly wanted. Finally, George broke the quiet: The firm went under. Im out of work. Maybe we should stay here, save on rent, and make the most of the land. Mabel, seeing an opportunity, agreed. Well keep the cottage, the flat will be yours eventually, and well all get through this together.
As we packed the last boxes, I felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. The cottage, once a foreign idea, now felt like a sanctuary. Even though the future was uncertain, I was grateful for the strange turn of events that forced us to reconsider where home really is.
Ill write more tomorrow, but for now Im exhausted and oddly hopeful.
Brynlee.
