I caught a fragment of my husbands conversation with his mother drifting through the thin night air.
Did you buy that sausage again? I told you its terrible!
Emma froze by the fridge, a bag of groceries clutched in her hands. No greeting, no kiss when James walked in from work.
Good evening, love, she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. I grabbed the one on sale. Moneys tight at the moment.
Tight? Youve got to be kidding, James raised his voice. Were scraping the bottom of the barrel, and youre splurging on nonsense!
What nonsense? Emma felt a hot sting of hurt rise inside. I only buy what we need.
James waved his hand and slipped into the bedroom. Emma stood in the kitchen, the handles of the bags whiteknuckled, the eightyear marriage suddenly feeling like three months of constant friction. He complained about her cooking, the way she stored things, the amount she spent. Hed never been so nitpicky before.
She began to arrange the food on the shelves, hands trembling. She wanted to cry but held herself together. She had to finish dinner; Lucy, their nineyearold, would be home from school any minute, and Emma could not let her see a mother breaking.
The evening passed in silent dinner. Lucy sensed the tension, ate quickly, and asked to do her homework at the table.
Go on, sweetheart, Emma said, planting a kiss on the top of Lucys head.
When Lucy left, James finally spoke.
I need to visit my mum this weekend. Shes not feeling well.
Okay, Emma nodded. Should I come with you?
No, Ill go alone. Stay home, youve got plenty to do.
Emma wanted to argue but kept quiet. In recent months she had learned to mute herself. Once they talked, argued, made up; now an invisible wall stood between them.
On Saturday James left early. Emma tackled the usual choreslaundry, cleaning, preparing lunch. The routine that had once felt ordinary now seemed a mountain of effort, each movement heavy with anxiety she could not shake.
Lucy played in her room while Emma tidied the bedroom. She opened a window for fresh air and heard voices. Neighbours, perhaps, on a balcony. She was about to shut it when a familiar voice cut through.
James stood on the balcony of his mothers flat. Not the neighbours, but his mothers flat in the same blockMrs. Margaret Blake lived just down the hall, same floor. Emma had once welcomed the proximity, now she was uncertain.
Mum, I cant take this any longer, James said, his tone plaintive, unlike the calm he used at home.
Son, you must be firm, Margaret replied. A woman should know her place.
Emma froze, aware she shouldnt be eavesdropping but unable to turn away.
She never understands, James continued. I tell her one thing, she does another.
Thats exactly why, Margaret interjected. Youre too soft with her. You need to keep her in iron gauntlets. Ive always said that.
But I cant keep shouting at her.
Then be stricter. Let her feel youre the head of the house, or shell go soft.
A shiver ran down Emmas spine. Soft? She worked from dawn till dusk, cooking, cleaning, raising Lucy, and parttime at the town library just to keep the bills afloat. This was what her motherinlaw called soft?
Im trying, Mum, James sighed. But sometimes I pity her.
Pity isnt a helper, Margaret said sternly. Youre the man, the familys pillar. If youre gentle, shell sit on your neck. All women are like that.
Not all
All! I raised you right, youre kind, but in marriage thats a weakness. Keep your wife in your grip.
Emma slipped away from the window, legs trembling. She covered her eyes and sank onto the bed, a low hum like a broken vacuum filling her head.
It wasnt James who had changed; it was Margarets constant nudging. Four months earlier, Margaret had stayed a week with them, and after that James became a different man. He visited his mother more often, grew colder, began picking apart the tiny things Emma once thought were irrelevant.
Lucy appeared in the doorway, eyes wide.
Are you crying, Mum?
Tears slipped down Emmas cheeks before she could stop them. She dabbed them away quickly.
No, love, just itchy eyes. Maybe dust.
Really?
Really, Emma forced a smile. Go play. Ill have lunch ready soon.
When Lucy left, Emma sat on the bed, wondering what to do. Should she tell James about the eavesdropping? That would spark another fight, hed accuse her of spying, and pull further away. Should she stay silent and endure a motherinlaw who was steering her husband against her?
The rest of the day unfolded like a fog. Emma cooked lunch without taste, talked with Lucy without hearing her words. Evening came and James dropped his keys on the hall table.
Is dinner ready? he asked, skipping a greeting.
Yes, just heating it up.
She set the pan on the stove, her hands moving on autopilot, Margarets words echoing: keep her in iron gauntlets, pity is useless.
Whats wrong? James asked, sitting down. You seem off.
Nothing, Emma replied, placing a plate before him. Just tired.
He grimaced. Here we go again, always tired. What do you do all day, just sit at home?
I dont sit, she snapped quietly. I work at the library.
Library, half a wage, pennies.
At least I bring something in. Didnt you ever forbid me?
He shrugged. I didnt. Just dont see the point. Youd better tidy the house properly.
Emma clenched her teeth, reminding herself not to let the argument spiral.
Later, after Lucy was asleep, Emma lingered in the kitchen with a cooling cup of tea while James watched television in the next room. They were strangers sharing a flat.
She remembered their first meeting, both twentythree, Emma a bookshop clerk, James buying a friends present. A coffee, a walk, laughter. He had been gentle, caring, attentive. Even then Margaret had whispered that Emma wasnt good enough, that James deserved more. He had ignored his mother then, insisting he loved Emma.
They married despite the disapproval, Lucy was born, the early years were hard but happy. Then Margarets visits grew frequent, phone calls multiple times a day, invitations to tea, and James kept going.
The next day Emma knocked on Margarets door.
Come in, Margaret said, surprise flickering across her face.
The flat was furnished with old, respectable pieces, lace napkins on the table, photographs of James at various ages. No pictures of Emma or Lucy.
Tea? Margaret offered.
No, thank you. I wont stay long.
They sat.
I wanted to talk about us, Emma began. Youve noticed things have been strained lately.
Margaret nodded. James told me.
Exactly. Im asking you to stop meddling in our marriage.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. Meddling? Hes my son. I have every right to be interested in his life.
Interest, yes. But not steering him against me.
What do you mean? Margarets tone hardened.
I heard you on the balcony yesterday.
Silence. Margarets face turned pale, then flushed.
You were eavesdropping?
I didnt mean to. I was just airing the room.
You said I should keep Emma in iron gauntlets.
And what of that? Margaret asked. I was speaking truth. Shes become soft, as I warned.
I work from dawn till night, I raise our child, I help James, I even work parttime at the library. Is that soft?
Yes, because the house is always a mess, James looks gaunt, you cant cook properly, your job is useless. A womans place is the kitchen.
Were not living in the 1950s!
Thats why families fall apartwomen forget their purpose, chase careers, and husbands become unhappy.
Lucy isnt abandoned! I give her all my time!
Its not enough. She needs a calm mother.
Emma stood, the conversation at a dead end.
Fine. I wont give up. This is my family, Ill fight for it.
Remember, James is my son. Hell always listen to me, not you.
Emma left, tears finally spilling onto the hallway carpet. She reached her own flat, collapsed onto the kitchen floor, and wept until the sobs ran out.
That night James returned, his face a mask of gloom.
Did you go to your mother? he asked.
Yes.
Why?
To talk.
He sighed heavily.
She called, said you were rude to her.
I didnt shout! I just asked her not to interfere.
She just gives advice.
Igor I mean James you dont see whats happening? Shes turning you against me!
Its nonsense, he waved it off. Mum just wants me happy.
Are you happy? Emma asked, eyes searching his. Be honest.
He fell silent, then admitted, Im exhausted the constant accusations, your tears, these fights.
Then lets try to go back to how we were.
It cant be the same, he muttered, stepping into the bedroom.
Emma stood in the kitchen, for the first time in years wondering if perhaps they should part.
Night after night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling while James slept, turned away, an invisible iceberg between them.
Morning found James already at work, no goodbye. Emma drove Lucy to school, then walked to the library. Her manager, Mrs. Allen, noticed her pallor.
Whats wrong? she asked.
Emma, almost on autopilot, recounted everything.
Mrs. Allen listened, then said, Men are easier to sway, especially by mothers. Your James is a mamas boy its a fact.
Wasnt this always?
Before the mother moved in, yes. Now shes a constant influence.
What should I do?
Dont give up. Remind him of who you were together. Think about your own limits. Can you keep battling someone who wont fight for you?
Those words lodged in Emmas mind. She replayed their first dates, his compliments, the day Lucy was born, the nights he held her hand in the hospital. Somewhere deep inside, the old James still lived, waiting for a spark.
That evening she cooked his favouriteroast potatoes with mushroomsset the table, lit a few candles. James arrived, halted at the doorway, surprised.
Whats this? he asked.
Dinner, Emma said, smiling. Shall we eat like before?
He sat hesitantly; she poured tea, served the potatoes.
Remember our first summer at the lake? she prompted. You almost drowned trying to prove you could swim.
He chuckled, a genuine one. You scolded me for an hour after.
Because I was terrified of losing you.
They talked about the past, laughed a bit. Hope flickered.
Then his phone rang.
Mom, he said, stepping away. He spoke low, Yes, Mum okay, Ill be there soon.
Emma watched him leave, his shoulders heavy. He didnt finish dinner. She sat, tears slipping into the gravy, but she didnt wipe them away.
Lucy entered, eyes bright.
Why are you crying, Mum?
Just nothing, love. Go to bed.
You fought with Daddy?
No, dear.
Lucys small arms wrapped around Emma. I love you.
I love you too, Emma whispered, hugging her tightly.
James returned late, eyes weary.
Hows Mum? Emma asked.
Her blood pressure spiked.
James, we need to talk.
Not now. Im tired.
When then? Weve stopped speaking altogether!
Tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came. Week after week, James shuffled between work and his mothers flat, weekend after weekend spent there, the pattern unbroken.
Emma finally wrote a long message, pouring out love, the strain, the mothers sabotage, the need for change or loss. James read it, didnt reply. That night he came home, darkeyed.
I read your message, he said. Youre dramatising.
Dramatising? We barely talk! You pick on me over everything! Were strangers!
You wont change! he snapped. Mums right, youre stubborn.
She hates me, wants to ruin us!
Shes helping me see the truth.
What truth?
That youre not the perfect wife the houses a mess, the foods bland, youre always miserable.
Emma felt something snap inside.
Fine. Maybe you should find a perfect wife then.
James went pale.
What are you saying?
Im saying Im exhausted. If Im that bad, why am I still with you?
He stared at the floor.
I maybe Mums making me see things I ignored.
Emmas voice softened. What things?
That youre not perfect.
She inhaled sharply. Good. Then perhaps I should look for someone who accepts me as I am.
Jamess mouth opened, then closed.
Sorry, he whispered. Ive been selfish.
Emma stood, closed the bedroom door, lay on the bed, feeling the weight lift from her shoulders. She finally spoke her truth, no longer hiding.
The next morning she took Lucy to school and visited her childhood friend, Sarah, whom she hadnt seen in years.
Whats happened? Sarah asked, opening the door.
Emma spilled everything.
You need a push, Sarah said finally. Hes used to you being there all the time. Let him feel what its like without you.
How?
Go away for a few days. Stay with your parents. Let him cook, clean, manage the kids. Hell realize what hes lost.
The thought was tempting, but it felt like blackmail.
It isnt blackmail, Sarah replied, reading her mind. Its showing him youre not a given, that youre a person with a life.
Emma called her parents, who lived three hours away in the countryside.
Come stay with us, love, her mother said.
Emma packed, told Lucy they were going to Grandmas for a holiday. Lucy beamed. She sent James a brief text: Were at my parents for a week. Take some time to think. I need the same. She turned off her phone, took Lucys hand, and left the flat.
On the train, Lucy fell asleep on Emmas shoulder. The countryside whisked by, a dreamscape of rolling hills and misty fields. Emma stared out, wondering what tomorrow would bring. Would James return? Could he stand up to his mother? Or was their marriage doomed?
Her parents met them at the station.
Whats wrong? her mother asked softly.
Ill tell you later, Emma whispered.
That night, after Lucy slept, Emma confessed everything to her parents. Her father listened, his face growing darker.
I should talk to that boy, he muttered.
Her mother placed a hand on Emmas shoulder. Were your family too.
She stayed three days, no phone, no worries. She walked with Lucy, helped with chores, talked with her dad. The world felt lighter.
On the fourth day she finally checked her phone. Thirty missed calls from James, a cascade of messages first angry, then bewildered, then pleading.
Where are you?
Why arent you answering?
Im scared.
Im sorry. We need to talk.
The last one read, I miss you, Lucy, and you. Come home, please.
Emma dialed his number.
Emma! James said after a brief pause. Where are you?
At my parents.
Why didnt you tell me?
I needed time to think.
He swallowed. Ive been thinking youre right. Mum was pulling me away from you. I didnt want to admit it.
Emma felt her heart quicken.
Continue.
I tried doing the housework, cooking I realized how much you do. Im sorry, a fool.
What about your mother?
Ive told her I wont let her meddle any more. Shes angry, but thats her problem now.
I need a little more time, Emma said. Ill be back in a few days.
Okay, James exhaled. Ill wait.
Emma stayed a couple more days, weighing her options, then decided to give James another chancefor herself, for Lucy, for the love that once seemed unbreakable.
When they returned, James waited at the station with a huge bouquet and a guilty grin. Lucy ran to him, shouting with joy. Emma walked slowly, meeting his eyes.
Im sorry, he said, offering the flowers. I understand now. I promise things will change.
Well see, Emma replied, a smile tugging at her lips.
At home the table was set; James had attempted dinner himself. It wasnt perfect, but Emma tasted it and found sincerity in the flavor.
Delicious, she said, not a lie. It mattered less how it was cooked than that he tried.
That night, after Lucy fell asleep, they talked at length his mothers control, Emmas feelings, their future. It was raw, honest, the kind of conversation they hadnt had in years.
My mother was domineering, James confessed. My dad died when I was ten; she raised meNow, hand in hand beneath the quiet night sky, Emma and James vowed to rebuild their love on a foundation of honesty, compassion, and shared sunrise, leaving the shadows of meddling voices forever behind them.
