The air in the room thickened like custard left out too long. Mums staying put! Youre the one wholl be out on your ear! bellowed her husband, his words slurring as if his tongue had forgotten which house deed bore whose name.
Emily stood by the bay window, the August sun pressing against London like a hot iron. Below, children darted between oaks in the square, their laughter floating up like bubbles.
Em, wheres my shirt? came the muffled demand from the bedroom. The plaid one!
Hanging in the wardrobe, she murmured without turning. Top shelf.
James appeared in the doorway, wrestling with the buttons. Tall, broad-shouldered, his hands rough from years as a mechanic. Once, those hands had made her feel safe.
Listen, he said, adjusting his collar, Mums coming round today. Give the place a proper tidy, yeah? Last time she went on about dust all evening.
Emily turned slowly. A familiar frustration coiled inside her.
Your mum always finds fault, she said quietly. Last time the roast was too dry, before that the mash was lumpy.
Then do better, James shrugged, as if discussing the weather. Shes only trying to help, and you take it personal.
Her fingers curled into fists. This flat was hers alone. Shed bought the two-bed before theyd even met, painted the walls her favourite shade of sage, spent every spare penny on the refurb. Now Margaret waltzed in every visit, rearranged the furniture, lectured her on where things ought to go.
Jim, we live in my flat, Emily reminded him. Maybe that should count for something?
Her husband froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob.
Whatre you on about? His voice turned gravelly. Saying I dont belong here?
Im saying your mum acts like she owns the place. Emily stepped closer. And you let her.
Mum cares about us! James turned fully toward her. About family! She gave up her own place for our Nigel, didnt she?
Emily smiled bitterly. That old tale about helping the young ones had worn thin.
Your mum gave Nigel a one-bed two years back, she said slowly. So what? Now she gets to boss me about in my own home?
Our home! James snapped. Were married!
On your twenty-grand salary, wed be renting a shoebox in Croydon, the words slipped out before she could stop them.
His face darkened. He loomed over her, his shadow swallowing the light.
So now youre throwing that in my face? His voice shook. Because I dont earn enough?
Im stating facts, Emily lifted her chin. Your mums renting now because she gave Nigel her flat. Yet she lectures us on how to live.
Nigel needed the help! James turned to the window. Young family, planning kids!
Kids, Emily repeated. Always about kids.
He whipped around. A familiar fire burned in his eyes.
And what, isnt it time? Five years married and you keep putting it off. A proper wife wants children!
On what, Jim? Emily spread her hands. Your wages? Do you know what nappies cost? School uniforms?
Wed manage, he waved a hand. Others do!
Others, Emily shook her head. And Id be stuck on maternity with no pay while you break your back at the garage for pennies?
Outside, sparrows chattered in the trees. James fell silent, jaw working.
Right, he finally said. Enough of this. Mums in a spot.
What now? Emily stepped away from the window.
Cant afford rent anymore, James rubbed his neck. Landlady doubled it, and her pension wont cover it.
Emily nodded. Margaret had moaned for months about prices. Only natural shed move in with Nigelinto the very flat shed handed him.
I see, Emily said. So Nigels lot will have to squeeze in.
James stiffened. His eyes turned flinty.
Mums staying here, he declared. Temporary, till she sorts something.
Emily went still. His words echoed as if down a long tunnel.
Here? she repeated. In our flat?
Yeah, here! James raised his voice. Whats the fuss? Theres room.
Jim, wherell she sleep? The lounge?
Whats wrong with that? He crossed his arms. Mums done everything for her kids, and youre being tight!
Emily pressed against the wall. Indignation boiled inside her.
Why not with Nigel? she asked quietly. Hes got the flat she gave him.
Theyve a kid! James roared. They need the space! Arent we family too?
We are, but this flats mine, Emily reminded him.
His face turned thunderous. He stepped closer.
Selfish! Always thinking of yourself! A decent wifed stand by her man in hard times!
Emilys back met the wall. He was too close, his presence smothering.
Wont give me kids, least you can do is help family! he went on. Mums sacrificed everything for us!
Jim, listen Emily began, but he cut in.
Maybe you dont want a family at all? Just say it!
Emily dropped her gaze. James knew how to twist the knife, find every soft spot. Guilt washed over her.
Fine, she said quietly. She can stay a while.
A week later, Margaret moved into the lounge. Three suitcases in tow, she began rearranging at once. The telly went by the window, the sofa against the wall, Emilys pot plants exiled to the balcony.
Needs more light in here, the mother-in-law explained as she shoved furniture about. And those plants just collect muck.
Emily watched in silence as her lounge became a strangers bedroom. James heaved boxes, eager to help.
Mum, you alright here? he asked gently.
Ill cope, sighed Margaret. Though its a bit poky.
Three months passed. Emily became a ghost in her own home. She crept about, terrified of disturbing her mother-in-law. Apologised for every clatter, every footstep.
Margaret took full command. She binned Emilys washing powder, replaced it with her own brand. Banned her favourite biscuits.
These cost too much, get the value ones, she ordered in Tesco. No sense wasting money.
Each morning, Emily cleaned under Margarets watchful eye. One day, taking out the bins, something caught her eye. She bent down and froze.
A childhood scrapbook. The one with school photos, her only record of those years.
Hands trembling, she pulled it free, tea stains blooming across the cover.
Margaret, she called, stepping back inside. Why was this in the bin?
Her mother-in-law didnt glance up from the telly.
Oh, that? I chucked it. Just cluttering up the place.
These are my childhood pictures! Emilys voice shook.
Old rubbish, Margaret waved her off. Why keep it?
Something inside Emily snapped. Three months of swallowed rage burst forth.
Out! she screamed. Get out of my flat now!
Margaret leapt from the sofa, eyes blazing.
How dare you speak to your elders like that! she shrieked. Know your place!
A dishevelled James rushed in, immediately siding with his mother.
Mums not going anywhere! he roared. Youre the one wholl be out!
But Emilys anger had turned to ice. She looked at them with eerie calm.
The flats in my name, she said softly but firmly. I decide who stays.
Youre off your head! James stepped closer, face purple. Im your husband!
Ex-husband, Emily corrected, turning to the cupboard.
She yanked out a duffel bag and began stuffing it with Margarets thingsblouses, skirts, nightiestossing them in without care.
Youve gone mad! James shouted. Pack it in!
Emily didnt answer. She snatched slippers from under the sofa, hurled them into the bag. Margaret scrambled, trying to grab her belongings back.
Love, think this through! Her voice quavered with outrage. Were family!
Family? Emily whirled around. Family doesnt bin childhood memories!
Margaret shrunk back. James lunged for the bag, but Emily dodged.
Mum gave up everything for her kids! he bellowed. And you turf her out like rubbish!
Five years I put up with your nonsense, Emily zipped the overstuffed bag. Three months Ive been a stranger in my own home!
She marched to the bedroom for Jamess thingsjumpers, shirts, jeansall into another bag. He followed, grabbing her wrist.
Think, Em! Wherell we go?
Not my problem, Emily wrenched free. Try Nigels.
No room at Nigels! Margaret wailed from the lounge. Theyve a baby!
And Ive got me! Emily shouted back, hauling both bags to the door.
She returned for shoes, toiletries, trinkets.
Youll rot here alone! James spat, shrugging on his jacket. Youll beg us to come back!
Emily held the door open in silence. Margaret sniffled, stuffing the last of her bits into a carrier bag.
Sweetheart, reconsider, she pleaded. Where will we live?
Where you lived before me, Emily replied.
James stormed out, bag in hand. On the threshold he turned, face twisted with hate.
Margaret shuffled out last, bags dragging. From the landing, she glared back.
Ungrateful cow! she screeched. We only wanted whats best!
Emily shut the door. Turned the lock twice, slid the chain. Shouts, footsteps, the lift clanking echoed from the stairwell.
Then silence.
Emily leaned against the door, listening to her own breath. For the first time in months, no blaring telly, no sofa groaning under weight.
She walked into the lounge. Shifted the sofa back, turned the telly around. Brought her plants in from the cold.
Then she sat, lifting the rescued scrapbook. Flipped through the pagesschool plays, a birthday with five candles, nursery graduation.
And suddenly she laughed. Soft at first, then louder. The laughter turned to sobs, then back to laughter. She laughed until tears ran down her face, the book clutched to her chest.
The flat was hers again. Hers alone.
