I remember the day I overheard my husbands conversation with his mother.
Did you buy that sausage again? his mother had asked. I told you its dreadful!
Mary stood frozen by the fridge, a bag of groceries in her hands. John had come home from the factory without a greeting or a kiss.
Good evening, love, she managed, trying to keep her voice steady. I bought the one that was on sale. Were a bit short on money these days.
Youre short? he snapped, his voice rising. Were barely making ends meet, and youre spending on nonsense!
What nonsense? Mary felt a sting of hurt rise inside her. I only buy what we need.
John waved his hand and stalked off to the bedroom. Mary stayed in the kitchen, clutching the bag handles. They had been married eight years, and for the past three months their arguments had multipliedabout the way she cooked, where she put things, how much she spent. He had never been so finicky before.
She began to arrange the food on the shelves, her hands trembling. She wanted to cry but forced herself not to. Dinner had to be ready; young Emily would be home from school any minute, and she could not let her see her mother in tears.
That evening they ate in silence. Emily, a clever nineyearold, sensed the tension and kept to herself, finishing her soup quickly and asking to do her homework in the sitting room.
Off you go, sweetheart, Mary said, planting a kiss on Emilys forehead.
When Emily left, John finally spoke.
I need to visit my mother this weekend; she isnt feeling well.
Alright, Mary said. Shall we go together?
No, Ill go alone. You stay home; theres a lot to do.
Mary wanted to protest but said nothing. Over the months she had learned to keep quiet. Once they had discussed everything, argued, and made up. Now a wall seemed to have risen between them.
On Saturday John left early. Mary turned to the houseworklaundry, cleaning, preparing a simple noon meal. The routine that had once seemed easy now felt heavy, each movement a struggle. Anxiety sat in her chest, refusing to be driven away.
Emily played in her room while Mary tidied the bedroom. She opened a window for fresh air and heard voices on the balcony. Neighbours, perhaps, she thought, but then recognized Johns voice.
Her husband stood on the balcony of his mothers flat. Not the neighbours block, but the flat where his mother lived just down the hall, on the same floor. Mary had once welcomed the proximity, thinking it convenient; now she was uncertain.
Mother, I cant take it any longer, John said, his tone plaintive, unlike the calm he used at home.
You must be firm, replied Mrs. Whitaker, his mother. A wife should know her place.
Mary froze, unable to look away from the window.
She doesnt understand anything, John continued. I tell her one thing, she does another.
Thats exactly why, Mrs. Whitaker interjected. Youre too soft with her. You must keep her in an iron grip. Ive always said that.
But I cant keep shouting at her, John protested.
Then be stricter. Let her feel youre the head of the house, or shell go soft, his mother replied.
A chill ran down Marys spine. Soft? She worked from dawn till duskcooking, cleaning, looking after Emily, and parttime at the village library to bring home a few extra pounds. Was that soft?
Im trying, Mother, John sighed. Sometimes I feel sorry for her.
Pity wont help, Mrs. Whitaker said sharply. Youre the man, the familys pillar. If youre gentle, shell lean on you. All women are like that.
Not all
All! I raised you right; youre kind and considerate, but in marriage thats a weakness. You must keep your wife in check.
Mary stepped back from the window, her legs weak. She covered her face and sank onto the bed, the room humming as if a vacuum cleaner had turned on.
It wasnt John who had changed; it was his mothers relentless nudging. Mary recalled that about four months earlier Mrs. Whitaker had stayed with them for a week. After that visit John became different.
She remembered the oddities of recent monthsJohns frequent trips to his mothers, his growing coldness after each stay, his newfound nitpicking over trivialities that once never bothered him.
Im crying, Mother? Emily asked, standing in the doorway with a frightened look.
Tears slipped down Marys cheeks before she could stop them. She quickly wiped them away.
No, love, just a tickle in my eyes. Probably dust, she said, forcing a smile. Go on and play. Ill have lunch ready soon.
When Emily left, Mary sat again on the bed, wondering what to do. Should she confront John? Tell him shed heard his mother? That would spark a fight; hed accuse her of spying and pull away further.
Remain silent? How could she live knowing his mother was steering him against her? Each harsh word, each criticism seemed to echo Mrs. Whitakers voice.
The rest of the day passed like a fog. Mary prepared the noon meal but tasted nothing. She spoke with Emily but heard only the sound of her own voice.
John returned that evening, dropping his keys on the hall table.
Dinner ready? he asked, skipping a greeting.
Yes, Ill heat it up, Mary replied, placing a pan on the stove. Her hands moved on autopilot, Mrs. Whitakers words echoingkeep her in an iron grip, pity is useless.
Is something wrong? John asked, sitting down. You seem off.
Nothing, she said, setting a plate before him. Just tired.
Again, the same old story, he muttered. Youre always tired, staying at home.
Im not just at home, Mary countered quietly. I work at the library.
A parttime job, barely any pay, he retorted. Why bother?
Youre not forbidding me, are you? she asked.
No, I just dont see the point. You should keep the house in order instead.
Mary clenched her teeth, reminding herself not to argue, not in front of Emily.
That night, after Emily was asleep, Mary lingered at the kitchen table with a cooling cup of tea while John watched television in the next room. They were strangers sharing a roof.
She thought back to their first meeting, when they were both twentythree. Mary had been a shop assistant in a bookshop, and John had come in to buy a present for a friend. They chatted, went for coffee, then dates, laughter. He was attentive, tender, caring.
Even then, Mrs. Whitaker had made clear she disapproved of Mary, claiming John deserved more, that Mary came from a modest background, lacked education. John had ignored his mothers scorn, saying he loved Mary enough.
They married despite her objections, welcomed Emily, endured early hardships yet found happiness. John was a solid support.
Then, gradually, Mrs. Whitfordnow Mrs. Whitakerbegan visiting more often, calling John several times a day, inviting him over. He started traveling to her flat repeatedly.
One day Mary decided to speak directly with her motherinlaw, not to argue but to converse as women. She knocked on the flats door.
Mrs. Whitaker opened, a flash of surprise on her face.
Ah, youre here. Come in, she said, stepping aside.
The flat was modest, furnished with wellworn pieces, lace doilies on the tables, photographs of John at various ages lining the wallsnone of Mary or Emily.
Would you like tea? Mrs. Whitaker offered.
No, thank you. I wont stay long, Mary replied.
They sat at the table, Mrs. Whitaker watching her intently.
I wanted to talk about us, Mary began. Youve probably noticed things havent been smooth lately.
Yes, John has mentioned it, Mrs. Whitaker nodded. He told me.
Thats why Im here. Could you perhaps stop interfering in our marriage?
Mrs. Whitaker raised an eyebrow. Interfering? Hes my son. I have every right to be interested in his life.
Interest is fine, but steering him against me is not.
What do you mean? the mothers tone grew cold.
I heard your conversation on the balcony yesterday.
A heavy silence fell. Mrs. Whitakers face drained of colour, then flushed.
You eavesdropped?
I didnt mean to. I was just airing the room and heard you saying I should be kept in an iron grip.
And what of that? she snapped. I was speaking the truth. Youre too lenient, youve become soft as I warned.
I work from sunrise to nightfall! I raise our daughter, keep the house, and still help at the library. Is that soft?
Yes? Then why is the house always a mess? Why is John so thin? Why cant you cook properly? And that library jobwhat for? A womans place is the kitchen.
We no longer live in the nineteenth century! Mary retorted, anger flaring.
Thats why families fall apart now, Mrs. Whitaker declared, standing. Women have forgotten their purpose, seeking careers and independence, leaving husbands miserable and children neglected.
Emily isnt neglected! I spend all my time with her! Mary protested.
Really? Ive seen you rush, mutter, never truly present. A child needs a calm mother.
Realising the conversation was going nowhere, Mary rose.
Fine. Know this: I will not give up. This is my family, and I will fight for it, she said firmly.
Mrs. Whitaker smirked. Remember, my son is my son. Hell always listen to me, not you.
Mary left, tears finally breaking free as she walked back to her own flat. She collapsed onto the kitchen floor, sobbing until the tears ran dry.
That night John returned, looking grim.
You were at your mothers? he asked.
Yes.
Why?
I wanted to speak.
He sighed heavily. She called, said youd spoken harshly to her.
I didnt! I just asked her not to meddle.
Shes just giving advice, he said.
John, cant you see whats happening? Shes turning you against me, manipulating you!
Thats nonsense, he waved it off. Mother just wants me happy.
Are you happy? Mary asked, meeting his eyes. Be honest.
He fell silent, looking away. Im tired, he finally admitted. Tired of the complaints, the tears, the endless arguments.
Then lets try to go back to how we were, Mary suggested.
Things cant be the same, he muttered, retreating to his bedroom.
For the first time in years Mary wondered whether they should remain together at all.
That night she lay awake, feeling an icy gulf where John slept, turned away from the wall.
In the morning John left for work without a goodbye. Mary took Emily to school and headed to the library.
Her supervisor, Mrs. Allen, noticed her distress.
Whats wrong? she asked gently.
Mary opened up, spilling the whole talethe eavesdropped balcony, the visits, Johns changing behaviour.
Mrs. Allen listened, then said, Men are often swayed by their mothers. Your husbands a mumboy; its a fact. Your motherinlaw lives nearby, so she can influence him constantly.
What should I do? Mary asked.
First, dont give up. Second, try to win him back by reminding him of the love you once shared. Third, think about yourselfare you willing to keep fighting for a man who refuses to fight for you?
Those words lingered. Mary spent the day recalling their courtship, his tender gestures, the day Emily was born, the sleepless nights they endured together. Somewhere inside the cold stranger still lived the John she loved. She just needed to reach him.
That evening she cooked his favouriteroast potatoes with mushroomsset the table beautifully, lit a few candles.
John walked in, surprised.
Whats this? he asked.
Dinner, Mary replied, smiling. Shall we eat together like before?
He hesitated, then sat. She ladled potatoes onto his plate, poured tea.
Remember that lake trip in our first summer? she asked. You nearly drowned trying to show off your swimming.
He chuckled. You scolded me for an hour afterward.
Because I was scared youd be gone, she said. I thought Id lost you.
They talked a little about the past. John even managed a few smiles. Hope flickered.
Then his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
Mum, he said, heading to the hallway.
Mary heard fragments: Yes, mum No, its fine I understand
When he returned, his face was hard again.
I have to go to my mother. Shes unwell.
Its already evening, Mary protested.
Yes, its urgent.
He left without finishing his meal. Mary sat at the table, the candles guttering, tears slipping into the gravy. Emily entered, curious.
Mom, why are you crying? she asked.
Just a little tired, love, Mary replied, wiping her cheeks. Go to bed.
Emily, perceptive beyond her years, hugged her. I love you, Mum.
I love you too, darling, Mary whispered.
John returned late that night, looking exhausted. Mary waited.
Hows your mother? she asked.
Fine. Blood pressure spiked, he replied, avoiding eye contact.
John, we need to talkseriously.
Not now, he said. Im weary.
Then when? We dont even speak properly now!
Because you wont change! he snapped. My mother is right; youre stubborn and willful. Youre ruining everything.
Youre the one who wont listen to me! She wants to tear our marriage apart!
Your mother only wants whats best for me, he retorted.
Then why do you become a different man after each visit? Mary pressed.
He fell silent, eyes downcast. Maybe shes opening my eyes to things I ignoredhow messy the house is, how bland the food, how Im never satisfied.
Mary felt something snap inside. If Im that bad, why stay with me?
Dont say foolish things, he warned. Youre not foolish, youre
Enough, she said quietly. Perhaps you should look for a perfect wife then.
Johns face turned ashen. What are you saying?
Im saying Im exhausted. Exhausted fighting, defending, justifying. If Im so poor, why do you keep me?
Dont be ridiculous, he replied. Its not like that.
Its reality, Mary insisted. Think on it. Im going to sleep.
She retreated to the bedroom, closing the door, feeling a weight lift as she finally voiced the thoughts shed long suppressed.
The next morning John left for work without a word. Mary took Emily to school and visited her sister, Claire, in the countryside.
Good heavens, you look awful! Claire exclaimed, opening the door. Whats happened?
Mary recounted everything. Claire listened, shaking her head.
You know what? John needs a good shove. Hes gotten too comfortable with you always being there, tolerating everything. Show him you cant be taken for granted, she advised.
How? Mary asked.
Take a few days away. Go to your parents. Let him manage the house, the child, the meals. Hell see what hes lost.
The idea was tempting, though it felt like blackmail.
Its not blackmail, its a wakeup call, Claire said. When youre always present, he sees you as furniture. A little shakeup might make him realize.
That day Mary phoned her parents, who lived three hours away by train. Her mother welcomed them gladly.
Come and stay, dear, she said. Well look after you.
Mary packed, telling Emily they were off to Grandmas for a holiday. The girl cheered. She sent John a short message: Were at my parents for a week. Use the time to think. Ill be back.
She turned off her phone, took Emilys hand, and left the flat.
On the train Emily fell asleep, head on Marys shoulder, while the countryside rolled by and Marys thoughts turned to the future. Would John return? Could he stand up to his mother? Or was their marriage doomed?
At the station her parents waited. Her mother embraced her gently.
Something wrong? she asked quietly.
Ill tell you later, Mary whispered.
That night, after Emily was asleep, Mary spoke everything to her parents. Her father listened, his face darkening.
I should go and talk to that boy, he muttered.
Dont, her mother cautioned. Its our problem now.
Its our problem, her mother agreed. Youre our daughter, so were involved.
Mary smiled through tears, grateful for their support.
She stayed three days, putting away phones, not thinking about the strife. She walked with Emily, helped her mother with chores, chatted with her father. The days passed peacefully.
On the fourth day she turned her phone back on. Thirty missed calls from John, a string of frantic messages.
Where are you? one read. Why arent you answering? She finally called him back, and they agreed to meet at the old oak by the river, where they would speak openly, set aside the meddling mother, and decide together whether to rebuild their marriage or part ways.
