“Youll manage.”
“Are you having a laugh?!” Mum snapped. “You cant even pay the bills! A grown woman! Smart enough to have a kid, but not smart enough to take care of yourself?”
Emma stood silent in the middle of the kitchen, eyes fixed on the sock slipping down her ankle. She hunched her shoulders, as if trying to make herself smaller, less noticeable.
“Mum, Im sorry” she mumbled. “I got back late last nightcompletely forgot.”
“Oh, and I suppose *I* didnt?”
Margaret swept her gaze over the table and stove. Someone had made porridge and left the saucepan unwashed. A dirty chopping board sat on the counter, crumbs scattered everywhere. This was the mess Margaret always cleaned up. Emma insisted it “didnt bother her.”
“We had an agreement,” Margaret continued. “You promised to at least handle the bills. Said youd picked up extra work. And where is it? *I* get your daughter ready for school, *I* buy her clothes, *I* put food on the table. Me. Always me. And you? Just lounging about!”
Emma shrugged sheepishly, opening her mouth to reply, but Margaret wasnt listening. She paced the kitchen, slamming cupboard doorsnot looking for anything, just needing somewhere to put her anger.
Emma was thirty-four nowhardly a girl, but there was still something expectant in her eyes, like she was waiting for someone to carry the weight for her. Right now, that someone was her mum, and Margaret was sick of it.
In the living room, her granddaughter clattered toys around. The racket had gotten louder since the arguing started, as if the little girl was trying to drown them out.
“Sophie can hear you,” Emma said quietly. “Shes getting upset. Please dont shout.”
“Then dont give me a reason to!” Margaret barked, then caught herself. “Right. Take the bills and sort it. Today. Not later. On your ownno help from me.”
Emma nodded and shuffled off like a scolded schoolgirl. Some things never changed.
Alone, Margaret sagged into a chair, finally letting the weight of everyone elses responsibilities press down on her.
DanielEmmas now ex-husbandhad burst into their lives like a tornado. Charming, poetic, guitar always in hand, wine in the other, spouting grand philosophies. They married in a whirlwind, and Emma got pregnant just as fast. Daniel promised to stick around until he didnt. Always vanishingneeding “space,” or “time with mates,” or to “find himself.” Often coming home smelling of booze.
Margaret had seen it coming. But did anyone listen? Emma had been offended. Shed hoped theyd “work things out.” Two years later, Daniel sent a text*This is for the best*and ghosted. No one had seen him since. Or the child support.
Emma came home with a toddler and a box of belongings. Margaret had been dreaming of retirement, of holidays. Those dreams got shoved in a drawer.
“We wont be long. Just till were back on our feet,” Emma had said that first day.
“You can count on me,” Margaret promised.
Six years later, they were still counting.
Margaret scrubbed the kitchen, remembering her own life at Emmas age. Back then, shed had two kids, a husband with liver disease, and a job at the post office. Every day was parcels, chores, and raising children. She couldnt afford to forget a thingno one was there to catch her. When her husband died, that need for control only got worse. Shed clawed her way through, because sinking wasnt an option.
Now, watching Emma, the same question gnawed at her: *Why cant you, when I could?*
Emma emerged from her room, eyes red, phone clutched in her hand.
“I Googled itfigured it out. Ill pay tomorrow,” she said. “Just Mum, maybe we could do things together?”
Margaret looked at her, exhaustion etched deep. *Together*a word that, for Emma, meant Margaret did the work while she watched.
“Fine. But pay tomorrow. No excuses.”
Emma nodded, edging closer to sit beside her. Margaret shifted away slightly.
“Mum are you mad at me?”
“Its not anger anymore. Its disappointment.”
Emma fumbled for her mums hand, but the warmth was gone. It felt like touching someone through gloves.
Monday morning was ordinary, except the porridge burned. The routine grated on Margaret more than ever. Then her phone rang. She nearly ignored itprobably spambut the name made her pause.
“Hi, Mike Yeah, hello.”
Mike was a colleague. Quiet, unassuming. But once, noticing her exhaustion, hed brought her coffee. Theyd talked sincewarmly, but never too personal.
“Listen,” he said. “Fancy a weekend in Brighton? Mates got a dealcheap, seaside. Too cold for swimming, but the airs nice.”
Margaret froze. The idea was reckless. Tempting.
“Me? Brighton?”
“Why not?” Mike chuckled. “Were adults. Free. No little kids tying us down.”
She didnt answer right away. A thousand tasks flashed through her mindthings no one else would do. But somewhere, a quiet voice whispered: *Just this once. Breathe.*
“Give me a day to think,” she said. “I want to, but gotta check a few things.”
That evening, when Margaret cautiously mentioned the trip, Emma stiffened.
“Waitwhat about the soft play? You *promised* youd come!”
“Emma, you can go without me. Its not the end of the world.”
“I already told Sophie you were going!” Emma flared.
“Listen. Im tired. I want to rest. Be *me* for oncenot Mum, not Grandma, not your maid.”
“So some bloke matters more than your own granddaughter?!”
Margaret exhaled sharply.
“This isnt about a *bloke*. Its about me *finally* putting myself first. Sorry if thats shocking.”
“Fine. Whatever,” Emma spat, storming off and slamming her door.
Brighton was crisp, the air sharp with salt and pine. Margaret walked the promenade with Mike, his hand steady under her elbow like theyd known each other years. That evening, they celebrated with wine and mussels at a seafront pub.
“Guessing you dont get out much?” Mike asked, topping up her glass.
“Id love to. Just no time for myself,” Margaret sighed.
She trailed off. So did Mike. Then, feeling oddly compelled to explain, she added:
“Ive got a daughter. Emma. Grown, but shes lived with me since her divorce. Six years. Always about to move out, never does. Cant even handle bills. So its all on me.”
“Maybe thats the problem,” Mike said lightly.
“How dyou mean?”
“My mum was like that with my brother. Did everything for him. Guess how much he does now?”
Mike set his glass down, meeting her eyes.
“Im no expert but nothingll change while youre there picking up the slack.”
Margaret knew where this was heading.
“Its *my* flat. Where would *I* go? *She* should leave.”
“And yet she hasnt,” Mike said simply. “Maybe stay with me? Plenty of space. If you want.”
Margaret stared. He said it so casually, like offering a cuppa. Something fluttered in her chest.
“Fine. But no roast dinners every Sunday.”
“Deal. Ill cook alternate weekends,” Mike grinned.
Margaret smiled backthen a memory surfaced.
“Emma, put your hat on,” her own mother had scolded. “And dont let your mother out of your sight.”
Once, theyd lived four-deep: her, Mum, Emma, and her brother. Dad long gone. Her brother moved out; the women stayed, fussing over Emmarunning to teachers when she struggled, enrolling her in clubs. Back then, Margaret called it “care.” Now, she wasnt so sure.
Emma grew up sheltered. Mum decided, Grandma approved, Emma just nodded. The scariest part? She still lived that way.
Something had to give.
After Brighton, Margaret spent one day at home. Then she packed a bag and left for Mikes without warning. Just a note: *Living apart for now. Youll manage! Im here, but I cant stay.*
At first, Emma was furious. Then anxious. Thenrealisation. Shed *have* to manage.
Everything went wrong. By day three, the Wi-Fi cut offforgotten bill. Her phone had the cheapest plan, no data. She traipsed through rain-soaked streets hunting for a payment terminal, boots leaking, throat raw by evening.
“Mum, the tablet won
