My mother will stay with us. Let yours go up to the cottage, the husband declared, his voice flat as the television hiss.
Listen, how about we go to the theatre on Saturday? Emily stirred the soup on the stove, her ladle clinking like a tiny bell. Theres a new productionSusan raved about it.
Peter snapped the remote off the screen and turned his gaze to his wife.
Theatre? Im not sure Im exhausted after the week.
Youre always exhausted, Emily sighed, the steam curling around her words. We havent been out together in six months.
Fine, well see, Peter muttered, eyes glued back to the flickering match.
Emily pressed her lips together. Later, maybe, someday. For fifteen years of marriage she had learned to read his halfpromises, but learning didnt mean surrender.
Peter, she called, turning off the burner, we really need to talk.
What about? he didnt look away from the football match spilling across the screen.
My mother called today. Her cottage roof leaks after rain; the roof needs fixing. I thought maybe she could stay with us for a couple of weeks while the work is done?
Peters brow furrowed. My mother called too. Shes about to start renovations and wanted to move in with us as well.
Emily sat down at the kitchen table. Then let both of them stay. Theres enough room.
No, Peter shook his head. Two mothers in one flat is too much. Theyll argue.
They wont argue, Emily insisted. They get along fine.
Peter rose, padded to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, swallowed, then turned back to Emily. My mother will live with us. Yours, off to the cottage, he said, his tone final.
A cold shiver ran through Emily. So what, my mother stays in a leaking cottage while yours lives here?
Yes, Peter shrugged. My mother is sixtyfive, its hard for her to be on a construction site. Yours is younger, shell manage.
My mother is sixtytwo! Emily snapped. Whats three years?
It matters, Peter said stubbornly. Besides, my mother is ill; she needs peace.
Emily rose from the table. And mine? She has erratic blood pressure, a sore back!
Everyone aches, Peter waved a hand. Anyway, Ive decided. My mother arrives the day after tomorrow, and yours can stay at the cottage.
He turned back to the television. Emily stood in the kitchen, stunned at his unilateral decree. How could he decide so? No discussion, just a proclamation!
She stepped into the living room. Peter, we havent finished talking.
Ive nothing more to say, he flipped channels. Its settled.
It isnt! Emilys voice rose like a wave. This is my flat too! I live here and I have a right to be heard!
The lease is in my name, Peter said coldly. I decide.
Emilys breath caught. So because the deed bore his name, he was the master, her opinion irrelevant.
Perfect, she whispered through clenched teeth. Just perfect.
She retreated to the bedroom, shut the door, and sank onto the bed, face buried in her hands. Anger and hurt swelled, urging her to scream, to cry, to smash dishes. Yet she sat, silent, the room humming with her breath.
That evening they ate without a word. Emily set the table in mute routine; Peter ate, then returned to the screen. When they finally went to bed, each turned to a different wall.
The next morning Peter left for work without a goodbye. Emily called her mother.
Darling, Im sorry, but you cant stay with us. Peter his mother also needs a place, and there isnt enough space.
Its all right, love, her mother, Margaret Clarke, replied soothingly. Ill stay at the cottage. What can I do?
But the roof is leaking! Emilys voice trembled, tears spilling.
Well just lay a tarp, put out buckets. Ill get through it, Margaret said matteroffactly. Dont worry.
Emily hung up and wept. Her mother would endure a dripping cottage while her motherinlaw settled into a warm flat. And Peter cared only for his mother.
An hour later Peter called. My mother will be here this evening. Prepare a guest room.
Okay, Emily replied briefly, then hung up.
She tidied the spare room, spread fresh linens, arranged flowers mechanically, as if on autopilot.
That night the motherinlaw arrivedMrs. Eleanor Whitwell, a stout woman with a perpetually displeased expression.
Hello, Emily, she smacked a kiss onto Emilys cheek. What a dreadful journey! The driver was a lout, shouting the whole way.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitwell, Emily helped her off the coat. Come in, the room is ready.
My son! Eleanor swooped into Peters arms. Ive missed you terribly!
Peter beamed, hugging his mother, asking about her trip. Emily watched the tableau, feeling the room tighten around her.
At dinner Eleanor complained about the renovation costs. Can you believe the builders want one hundred thousand pounds for everything? Its daylight robbery! I tell them to find another crewthese are the ones they sent!
My mother, thats normal pricing these days, Peter remarked.
Its normal? In my day you could buy a flat for that! Eleanor huffed. Now they charge three fortunes for a nail!
Emily ate her soup in silence while Eleanor ranted about prices, the government, neighbours, the weather. Peter nodded, sympathetic.
Why so glum, Emily? Eleanor asked suddenly. You look gloomy.
Just tired, Emily answered.
Tired? You sit at home all day and are tired? I worked three jobs at your age and never complained! Eleanor retorted.
Emily stayed quiet. Arguing with Eleanor was futile; she would always dominate the conversation.
After dinner Eleanor retired to her room, and Emily began washing dishes. Peter approached.
Whats wrong with you? he asked.
Im not angry, Emily said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never asked my opinion, she finally looked at him. You just decided, and thats it. My mother will be drenched in rain, yours will stay warm here.
Dont exaggerate, Peter sneered. Your mother will cope.
What if the roles were reversed? Emily wiped her hands on a towel. What if I said my mother would move in and yours stayed at the renovation?
Thats different, Peter growled.
How is it different?
Because my mother is older and sicker.
Its only three years! Emily exploded. Three years is nothing!
Peter waved his hand and left. Emily remained in the kitchen, tea cooling in her cup, wondering if she should just leavetake the train to the cottage, let Peter stay with his precious mother.
She paused. Where would she go? This was her home too.
The next morning Eleanor rose early, bustling about the kitchen. Emily awoke to the clatter of pots.
Good morning, Eleanor called, rummaging through cupboards. Emily, wheres the sieve? I want to make porridge.
In the right cupboard, top shelf, Emily replied.
Eleanor dug out dishes, muttering, What a mess! How do you even find things here?
I do, Emily said calmly.
We need to reorganise everything, Eleanor declared, already moving furniture.
No, thank you, Emily said, taking her hand. Im comfortable as it is.
Comfortable? Living in chaos! No wonder Peter is always grouchy! Eleanor snapped.
Emily clenched her fists, breathing deeply. Mrs. Whitwell, this is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and it works for me.
Fine, fine, dont get all worked up, Eleanor said, waving a hand. I just want whats best.
Emily left the kitchen and slipped into the bathroom, looking at her reflectiondark circles, a weary face, tension etched in every line. She felt the weight of exhaustion settle like a stone.
Peter left for work without a goodbye. Emily called her mother again.
Mum, can you come? she asked, voice trembling.
Alright, love, Margaret replied. Ive put buckets out, stretched a tarp. The rains stopped, at least for now.
Mom, could you maybe stay with us? Emily whispered, a lump forming in her throat. We could make room
No, dear, Margaret said gently. I can manage here. Youre fine.
Emily hung up and wept. Her mother would remain under a leaking roof while Eleanor basked in a warm flat, and Peter seemed indifferent. His mothers comfort mattered more than hers.
An hour later Peter phoned. My mother arrives this evening. Set up a guest room.
Will do, Emily said shortly, then hung up.
She arranged fresh sheets, placed flowers, moving through the motions as if on a conveyor belt.
That night Eleanornow fully settledkissed Emily on the cheek. Hello, little Emily, she cooed. What a dreadful journey! The driver was rude all the way.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitwell, Emily helped her off the coat. Come in, the room is ready.
My son! Eleanor flung herself around Peter, hugging him tightly. I missed you so much!
Peter beamed, answering her questions, while Emily watched the scene, feeling the room compress around her.
During dinner Eleanor complained about the builders price again. One hundred thousand pounds! Its a robbery! I told them to find other men, these are the worst.
My mother, thats normal these days, Peter said.
Its normal? In my day you could buy a flat with that! Eleanor huffed. Now they charge a fortune for a nail!
Emily ate silently, the soup warm in her bowl, while Eleanor bemoaned everything from the weather to the government. Peter nodded, offering sympathy.
Why so glum, Emily? Eleanor asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. You look gloomy.
Just tired, Emily answered.
Tired? You sit at home all day and are tired? I worked three jobs at your age and never complained! Eleanor retorted.
Emily stayed silent. Arguing with Eleanor was pointless; she would always dominate the conversation.
After dinner Eleanor retired, and Emily began washing dishes. Peter approached.
Whats wrong with you? he asked.
Im not angry, Emily said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never asked my opinion, she finally looked at him. You just decided, and thats it. My mother will be drenched in rain, yours will stay warm here.
Dont exaggerate, Peter sneered. Your mother will cope.
What if the roles were reversed? Emily wiped her hands on a towel. What if I said my mother would move in and yours stayed at the renovation?
Thats different, Peter growled.
How is it different?
Because my mother is older and sicker.
Its only three years! Emily exploded. Three years is nothing!
Peter waved his hand and left. Emily remained in the kitchen, tea cooling in her cup, wondering if she should just leavetake the train to the cottage, let Peter stay with his precious mother.
She paused. Where would she go? This was her home too.
The next morning Eleanor rose early, bustling about the kitchen. Emily awoke to the clatter of pots.
Good morning, Eleanor called, rummaging through cupboards. Emily, wheres the sieve? I want to make porridge.
In the right cupboard, top shelf, Emily replied.
Eleanor dug out dishes, muttering, What a mess! How do you even find things here?
I do, Emily said calmly.
We need to reorganise everything, Eleanor declared, already moving furniture.
No, thank you, Emily said, taking her hand. Im comfortable as it is.
Comfortable? Living in chaos! No wonder Peter is always grouchy! Eleanor snapped.
Emily clenched her fists, breathing deeply. Mrs. Whitwell, this is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and it works for me.
Fine, fine, dont get all worked up, Eleanor said, waving a hand. I just want whats best.
Emily left the kitchen and slipped into the bathroom, looking at her reflectiondark circles, a weary face, tension etched in every line. She felt the weight of exhaustion settle like a stone.
Peter left for work without a goodbye. Emily called her mother again.
Mum, can you come? she asked, voice trembling.
Alright, love, Margaret replied. Ive put buckets out, stretched a tarp. The rains stopped, at least for now.
Mom, could you maybe stay with us? Emily whispered, a lump forming in her throat. We could make room
No, dear, Margaret said gently. I can manage here. Youre fine.
Emily hung up and wept. Her mother would remain under a leaking roof while Eleanor basked in a warm flat, and Peter seemed indifferent. His mothers comfort mattered more than hers.
An hour later Peter phoned. My mother arrives this evening. Set up a guest room.
Will do, Emily said shortly, then hung up.
She arranged fresh sheets, placed flowers, moving through the motions as if on a conveyor belt.
That night Eleanornow fully settledkissed Emily on the cheek. Hello, little Emily, she cooed. What a dreadful journey! The driver was rude all the way.
Good evening, Mrs. Whitwell, Emily helped her off the coat. Come in, the room is ready.
My son! Eleanor flung herself around Peter, hugging him tightly. I missed you so much!
Peter beamed, answering her questions, while Emily watched the scene, feeling the room compress around her.
During dinner Eleanor complained about the builders price again. One hundred thousand pounds! Its a robbery! I told them to find other men, these are the worst.
My mother, thats normal these days, Peter said.
Its normal? In my day you could buy a flat with that! Eleanor huffed. Now they charge a fortune for a nail!
Emily ate silently, the soup warm in her bowl, while Eleanor bemoaned everything from the weather to the government. Peter nodded, offering sympathy.
Why so glum, Emily? Eleanor asked suddenly, eyes narrowing. You look gloomy.
Just tired, Emily answered.
Tired? You sit at home all day and are tired? I worked three jobs at your age and never complained! Eleanor retorted.
Emily stayed silent. Arguing with Eleanor was pointless; she would always dominate the conversation.
After dinner Eleanor retired, and Emily began washing dishes. Peter approached.
Whats wrong with you? he asked.
Im not angry, Emily said without turning. Im upset.
Why?
Because you never asked my opinion, she finally looked at him. You just decided, and thats it. My mother will be drenched in rain, yours will stay warm here.
Dont exaggerate, Peter sneered. Your mother will cope.
What if the roles were reversed? Emily wiped her hands on a towel. What if I said my mother would move in and yours stayed at the renovation?
Thats different, Peter growled.
How is it different?
Because my mother is older and sicker.
Its only three years! Emily exploded. Three years is nothing!
Peter waved his hand and left. Emily remained in the kitchen, tea cooling in her cup, wondering if she should just leavetake the train to the cottage, let Peter stay with his precious mother.
She paused. Where would she go? This was her home too.
The next morning Eleanor rose early, bustling about the kitchen. Emily awoke to the clatter of pots.
Good morning, Eleanor called, rummaging through cupboards. Emily, wheres the sieve? I want to make porridge.
In the right cupboard, top shelf, Emily replied.
Eleanor dug out dishes, muttering, What a mess! How do you even find things here?
I do, Emily said calmly.
We need to reorganise everything, Eleanor declared, already moving furniture.
No, thank you, Emily said, taking her hand. Im comfortable as it is.
Comfortable? Living in chaos! No wonder Peter is always grouchy! Eleanor snapped.
Emily clenched her fists, breathing deeply. Mrs. Whitwell, this is my kitchen. Ive been cooking here for fifteen years, and it works for me.
Fine, fine, dont get all worked up, Eleanor said, waving a hand. I just want whats best.
Emily left the kitchen and slipped into the bathroom, looking at her reflectiondark circles, a weary face, tension etched in every line. She felt the weight of exhaustion settle like a stone.
Peter left for work without a goodbye. Emily called her mother again.
Mum, can you come? she asked, voice trembling.
Alright, love, Margaret replied. Ive put buckets out, stretched a tarp. The rains stopped, at least for now.
Mom, could you maybe stay with us? Emily whispered, a lump forming in her throat. We could make room
No, dear, Margaret said gently. I can manage here. YoureYoure better off staying where you belong.
