Your mum will stay with us; your parents can remain in the village, I said, trying to sound reasonable.
You spent £450 on what? A kitchen unit? Lucy snapped, the receipt flying onto the table so hard the plates jumped.
She winced but kept her composure.
The unit. The old one fell apart completelydoor fell off, the worktop was mottled with stains.
Four hundred and fifty pounds! We agreed that any big purchase would be discussed first!
I told you a month ago! You said look for yourself, I muttered.
I never said Id spend that much!
How much do you think a decent set should cost? Ten grand? That was the cheapest I could find.
I paced the kitchen, tugging at my hair.
Every penny counts right now! Weve been saving for a car!
We were saving. Well save again. But I need somewhere to cook now, not when we finally buy the car.
You could have waited!
Wait? Another six months cooking on two burners because the rest are broken?
I turned to her, anger rising.
If youd been better at budgeting, wed have a car and a bigger flat by now!
Lucys throat tightened.
Im not bad with money! I count every pound to make it last until payday. I buy the cheapest groceries and wear the same coat for three years.
And thats a victim mentality again!
Im not a victim; Im stating facts!
We stood facetoface, breathing heavily. Lucy felt tears well up but forced them back. No crying, no showing weakness.
Olivers phone rang. I glanced at the screen, saw my mothers name, and slipped out into the hallway.
Lucy stayed at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. What had happened to us? Wed never argued about money before, never fought this often.
She remembered how wed met. I was working as an administrator at a dental practice; Lucy came in for a filling. We chatted while waiting, I invited her for tea, and six months later I proposed.
She was twentysix, I twentyeight. Both of us working, sharing a flat, then we took out a mortgage and bought a onebedroom on the outskirts of town. Modest, but ours.
Life was decent. Not rich, but we werent struggling. Arguments were rare and usually over trivial things. Lucy thought we were fine.
Then something broke. I grew irritable, nitpicky, constantly harping on money and saving, even though I earned a good salary as a manager at a large firm.
Lucy also worked, but earned less. She tried to help at home, cooking, finding ways to cut costs.
But I was never satisfied. You cooked this, you cleaned that, you spent too much.
When I returned to the kitchen, my face was serious.
Lucy, we need to talk.
Im listening.
My mum called. Her health is failingblood pressure spikes, her heart is weak. She cant live alone.
And?
Ive decided shell move in with us until she gets better.
Lucy stared at me.
Oliver, we only have a onebedroom. Where will she stay?
On the sofa in the sitting room. Well move the dining table to the kitchen and set up a foldout couch.
Youre serious?
Absolutely. Shes my mother. I cant leave her on her own in that condition.
Im not opposed to helping her, but could we hire a carer? Or?
A carer costs money we dont have, thanks to your spending.
Lucy clenched her fists under the table.
What about my parents? Theyre about seventy, Dad struggles with household chores, Mum cant walk well after a stroke.
Your folks live in the village. They have their own house and garden. Theyre fine there.
Theyre not fine! I drive up every week to helpchop firewood, carry water, tidy up!
Keep doing that, but my mum will be here.
Why does your mum get priority while my parents have to suffer in the village?
I looked at her coldly.
Because my mum is alone. Your parents are a couple; its easier for them. Plus, she needs city doctors, whereas your parents are used to rural life.
Used to rural life?! Do you hear yourself?
I hear. Mum will stay with us; your parents can stay in the village. Thats my decision.
Lucy stood up.
You decided, not us. No discussion.
Im the head of the family.
The head of the family who spends on fishing gear and a new rod, yet balks at buying a kitchen set for his wife! she laughed bitterly.
Dont twist my words!
Im not twisting, Im stating facts! You think you have the right to decide for both of us, but when my parents are involved, thats different!
Your parents are fine!
No! Its hard for them, and you never even ask if they need help! You never go with me!
I grabbed the car keys.
Im fed up with this. Mum arrives on Saturday. Prepare a room.
What if I dont want to?
This is my flat. I pay the mortgage. My mother will live here, whether you like it or not.
I walked out. Lucy sank to the kitchen floor and wept silently, feeling utterly alone in the place wed built together.
She wiped her tears, fetched her phone, and called her parents.
Hello, love! her mum answered, voice frail.
Mum, how are you?
Doing okay, dear. Dads chopping firewood, were stoking the stove. Its been a cold year.
Mum, could you move to the city? I could find a flat
Lulu, why would we? Weve lived here all our lives. And where would the money come from?
Let me figure it out.
No need. Well manage. You already do so much for us. Just dont wear yourself out.
Lucy swallowed more tears.
Ill be there on Sunday with food.
Come, love. Well be glad to see you.
Her parents never complained; they always said theyd manage. Yet Lucy saw the strainold house, coal heating, water fetched from a pump, Dad at seventythree barely walking after heart surgery, Mum still weak from the stroke.
Her motherinlaw, Valerie, lived in a twobedroom flat in town. She was sixtyfive, not in perfect health but still independent. I was her only son, and she called me ten times a day with advice on everything.
At first I put up with it. Then I began to protest, but I always took my mothers side, insisting Lucy didnt understand that her mother meant well.
Now Valerie was moving in with us, taking up half the wardrobe, ordering me around in the kitchen. Lucy slept on the foldout couch in the kitchen with me, a sore back from the cramped arrangement.
Valerie rose early, clattered dishes, made a breakfast Lucy never atefar too richand blared the telly at full volume. Then she lectured:
Lucy, youre washing the floor wrong. Use this method.
Lucy, you set the washing machine too cold.
Lucy, that dress doesnt suit you.
Lucy endured silently, doing things her way. Valerie complained to me, and I scolded Lucy.
Why cant you listen to my mother? She wants to help!
I dont need her help!
Youre rude and ungrateful!
Our fights became daily. Lucy felt herself drainingwork, house, motherinlaw, husband, everything crushing her.
One evening Lucy sat at the kitchen table, tallying expenses. Money wouldnt stretch to the next payday. She needed to buy Dads medication, pay the neighbour who helped with the garden, and cover the gas bill.
Valerie walked in.
Lucy, I need new slippers. These hurt. Can you spare some money?
I have nothing extra.
How can you? Olivers got his salary!
My salary goes to the mortgage and food.
What about yours?
My pay covers my parents meds, the bills, basics.
Your parents! Always your parents! No money for your motherinlaw!
Valerie, you have a pension.
Its tiny! I cant make ends meet!
Im in the same boat, but Im not asking you for money.
Valerie stormed out, then complained to me in the hallway.
You refused my mothers request for slippers!
You dont have money to give her! I shouted, redfaced.
You have money for your parents, but not for mine! she retorted.
We yelled, she stood in the doorway smug, while Lucy watched from the kitchen, finally seeing the whole picture: a mother manipulating her son, a husband blind to it, and a wife backed into a corner.
Enough, Lucy said quietly.
What do you mean, enough? I asked, bewildered.
Enough of all this. Im tired of his attitude, of being treated like a servant, of my parents being invisible to you.
Lucy, youre being dramatic!
Its not a drama. Its a decision. Im leaving.
I froze.
Where?
To my parents. Ill live with them and care for them. If you dont need me here, thats fine.
Youre crazy!
No, Im just deciding. You two will manage on your own.
Lucy packed a suitcase, I followed her.
Lucy, stop! You cant just walk out! I pleaded.
I can, and I will.
What about me?
Youll manage. Mum will cook, wash, and iron for you.
But I love you!
She stared into my eyes.
If you loved me, you wouldnt let your mother push me aside, you wouldnt put her wishes above mine, you wouldnt forget my parents.
I didnt forget! I just didnt mention Dads birthday next week, didnt ask if you needed help, didnt suggest a visit together.
She turned away, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Im exhausted being alone in this marriage. I want to care for those who value my care.
She closed the suitcase, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door.
Lucy, wait! Lets talk!
Its too late to talk. It should have been earlier.
She stepped out into the cold night, snow falling, and hailed a cab to the train station, buying a bus ticket to the village.
She arrived late, the house quiet. She slipped into an old sofa in the sitting room and fell asleep.
Morning smelled of pancakes. Her mum was at the stove.
Lucy! How are you? she beamed.
Im here, for good.
What about Oliver?
Hes staying with my mum. Itll be easier for them.
Her mum hugged her tightly.
My dear, how did we get here?
It just happened.
They sat with tea, Lucy explaining the whole mess. Her dad nodded.
You did right. You cant tolerate that treatment.
I love him, she whispered.
Love isnt about tolerating humiliation. Love is respect. He didnt respect you.
She agreed, and soon found work in the village library. The pay was modest but enough. She helped her parents with chores, adjusting to country life.
Oliver called at first, begging me to return, promising change. I didnt believe him.
A month later he turned up at the gate.
Can I come in?
Come in.
We sat in the kitchen while her parents tended the garden.
Ive realised. Mum was a burden. I cant live like that again, he said.
What now?
I want you back. Well start over. Ill help your parents, listen to you, not put my mum above you.
I looked at him, wanting to trust but fearing another lie.
Ill think about it, I said.
How long?
Maybe a month, two. I need to see its not just a temporary fix.
He nodded.
Okay, Ill wait.
Three months passed. He visited weekly, helping with firewood, repairing the roof, fetching water, chatting with both sets of parents, asking about their health. I saw genuine effort.
One evening on the porch he said, I sold the flat.
What?
I sold it and bought a threebedroom house, a bit bigger, so your parents could move in with us if you want.
Did you really do that?
Yes. I finally understood Id been wrong, putting my mum above you, forgetting your parents. Im sorry.
Tears welled in my eyes.
What about your mum?
Shes upset, but I told her she either accepts us or well see each other less. She chose to accept.
How?
She even wants to visit your parents and apologise for how she behaved.
I didnt know what to say.
Will you come back? he asked.
I looked at his earnest face, his hands still dirty from the garden.
Yes, but on one conditionour families are equal. My parents are as important as yours. My opinion matters as much as yours.
He agreed, promising.
We embraced on the porch of the old cottage, knowing there was still work aheadrebuilding trust, balancing families. But we could do it. Family is built on respect, not onesided sacrifice.
Valerie arrived a week later, apologised to my parents, even helped my mum with chores. It seemed miracles, or simply a son finally growing up and setting things straight.
I moved back to town, into a new threebedroom flat. My parents stayed in the villagethey preferred itbut Oliver and I visited often, helping out.
And that felt right. Because a family isnt just a husband and wife; its both sets of parents, and they all deserve equal love and care.
