The husband brought his mother to live in their one-bedroom flat.
«Mother’s staying with us for a while,» said Andrew, shifting awkwardly in the cramped hallway. «The pipes burst in her place, and the repairs will take ages. Can’t have her out on the street, can we?»
Emma froze, a damp towel in her hands, fresh from the shower. Her wet hair darkened the shoulders of her old dressing gown. Behind Andrew stood his mother, Margaret, clutching two enormous suitcases and a cardboard box tied with twine.
«Hello, love,» Margaret said warmly, as if oblivious to Emmas stunned expression. «Dont you fret, I wont be underfoot for long. Just till the plumbers sort the mess. A month, two at most.»
A month? Two? In a flat barely thirty square metres, where the kitchen was the size of a wardrobe and the bathroom so narrow you could barely turn around? Emma felt something tighten inside her.
«Margaret, lovely to see you,» she forced a smile, swallowing the panic. «But are you sure youll be comfortable here? Perhaps a friend has space?»
«Oh, dont be silly, dear,» Margaret waved her off, stepping past her into the flat. «Friends my age? The ones still kicking are barely mobile. Besides, I wouldnt want to impose.»
*But imposing on us is fine*, Emma thought but bit her tongue.
«Mum, lets put your things here,» Andrew gestured to the corner near the bookshelf. «Youll take the sofa. Emma and I can manage the pull-out.»
«Absolutely not!» Margaret protested. «Ill have the pull-out. You young ones need a proper bed.»
«Mum, your backs bad,» Andrew said firmly. «You cant sleep on that thing.»
Emma watched silently, feeling like a stranger in her own home. Officially, the flat was hersleft by her grandmother before the marriage. But that hardly mattered now. Andrew had made the decision without consulting her.
«Ill put the kettle on,» she said at last, retreating to the kitchen, where the fridge, stove, and tiny table barely fit. «Margaret, you must be hungry after the trip?»
«Dont trouble yourself, love. I had a bite on the coach,» Margaret replied, already unpacking onto the armchair. «Tell me, how do you manage in this shoebox? Andrew says its fine, but I can see its a squeeze. High time you moved somewhere bigger.»
Emmas lips thinned. This was a sore subject. They wanted more space, but between Andrews mechanic wages and her primary school teacher salary, they barely scraped by. A mortgage? Out of the question.
«Mum, weve talked about this,» Andrew sighed. «Nows not the right time.»
«When will it be, then?» Margaret shook her head. «Youre thirty-two, Emmas twenty-eight. Time to start a family, but where would you raise children here?»
Emmas cheeks burned. Childrenanother tender topic. Four years married, and Margaret never missed a chance to mention grandchildren.
«Mum, not now,» Andrew shot Emma an apologetic glance. «Emmas knackered after work, and youve just arrived. Lets all catch our breath.»
Margaret huffed but busied herself with her belongings.
Emma escaped to the kitchen, inhaling deeply. She loved Andrewreally, she did. But his inability to say no to his mother, his habit of bending to her will, drove her mad. Bringing his mother into their tiny flat without warning, without asking…
The kettle boiled, and she mechanically made tea. Through the small kitchen window, grey tower blocks loomed under a heavy October sky. The dreary view mirrored her mood perfectly.
«Emma, dear, need a hand?» Margarets voice behind her made her jump.
«No, thank you,» Emma forced another smile. «Just lost in thought.»
«About what?» Margaret perched on a rickety chair.
«Work,» Emma lied. «Difficult class this year. Twenty-eight kids, half with no discipline.»
«Oh, I feel for you,» Margaret tutted. «In my day, children respected their elders. Now? No order at all.»
Emma stayed silent, pouring tea. Margaret always romanticised the past, pitting it against a «rotten» present. Arguing was pointlessshe never listened.
«All settled, Mum?» Andrew peeked in. «Tea! Perfect. Early shift tomorrow, so Ill turn in soon.»
«Of course, love,» Margaret patted his arm. «Off you pop. Emma and I will have a nice chat.»
*Just what I need*, Emma thought but said nothing. Andrew gave a grateful nod and vanished, leaving her alone with Margaret.
«How are things with Andrew?» Margaret began bluntly. «He always says fine, but I know somethings off.»
«Everythings fine,» Emma kept her voice neutral. «Just ordinary married life.»
«Ordinary?» Margaret scoffed. «Wheres the spark? Hes lost weight. Are you feeding him properly?»
«I try,» Emma sipped her tea to mask her irritation. «We both work late. Margaret leaned forward, her eyes sharp. «You dont argue, do you? Thats the problem. A bit of fire keeps a marriage alive. Back in my day, we didnt just *coexist*.»
Emma set her cup down slowly. «Were not you and Dad.»
«No,» Margaret agreed, surprisingly soft. «Youre quieter. Hes softer. But love isnt quiet, dear. It shouts, it stumbles, it fights its way through messeslike this flat, like broken pipes, like mothers who overstay.» She paused. «I knew the pipes were fine.»
Emma stared.
Margaret met her gaze. «I wanted to see how youd bend.»
The silence stretched, thin as the steam from the cooling tea. Then, despite herself, Emma laughedshort, startled, real.
Margaret smiled back, just a little. «There it is.»
And in that cracked moment, something in the tiny kitchen shifted, not fixed, but finally seen.
