She sat on the edge of the sofa, wearing the same grey knitted jumper shed made for herself a year ago while he was illwarm, with cable stitching down the sides. Her hands rested on her knees, stiff as if nailed there.
“You told me not to interfere,” her husband said, walking toward the door. “So I wont.”
“Are you serious?” she asked, her voice steady. “Youre leaving? Now?”
“When else?” he replied. “Before you decide how I should live my life again? Before you dictate what Im allowed to do?”
“I never told you how to live,” she said. “I just asked you to talk to your mother. To explain that were a family, that we have our own life. Not to choose between us.”
“You said, ‘Its her or me,'” he countered, setting his suitcase down. “I remember every word. You screamed it in the kitchen when she brought over strawberries you never asked for. ‘She acts like this is her house! When will it end?'”
“Yes, I shouted,” she admitted. “Because she turned up at six in the morning, woke us up, dumped a bag of fruit on the table, said, ‘You ought to wash these windows, loveits all dust in here,’ then marched into the bathroom like she lived here. I dont mind visitors, but I need privacy. Is that a crime?”
“You called her ‘that woman,'” he said. “‘Shes here again.’ ‘She wont leave.’ I heard it every time she walked out the door.”
“I didnt use her name because she didnt act like a guest,” she said. “She acted like she owned the place. Like I was just renting a room. You saw how she rearranged the furniture, moved your things, shoved my books off the shelf because ‘they cluttered the place.'”
“She was just trying to help,” he said, though his voice wavered.
“Help?” she repeated. “Like when she shrank my wool dress in the wash? Like when she threw out my prescriptions because ‘chemicals are poison’? Or when she told the neighbours I was ‘having a breakdown’? Was that help?”
He stayed silent, staring at the floor.
“I never asked you to choose,” she said again. “I asked you to stand by me. To defend us. But you never did. Not once. You let her talk down to me, judge me, interfereand now, when I finally say Ive had enough, you walk out? Just like that?”
“You dont understand,” he muttered. “Shes all Ive got left. Dads gone, my sisters moved awayIm her only support. And you want me to tell her, ‘Mum, youre not welcome anymore’?”
“I dont want that,” she said quietly. “I want you to say, ‘Mum, we love you, but we have our own family now. Call before you visit. Dont touch my wifes things.’ Is that so hard?”
“You dont know how she took Dads death,” he said. “Shes fragile. Nervous. She needs stability.”
“And I dont?” she asked. “Dont I deserve a home where Im not treated like an outsider?”
He didnt answer. Picked up the suitcase and headed for the door.
“Are you coming back?” she asked.
“I dont know,” he said. “Not until you realise I cant choose between you.”
The door clicked shut. The flat fell silent, save for the ticking hallway clock.
She didnt cry. Just sat there, staring at the wall where their wedding photo hung. Him at forty-two, her at thirty-eight. Him in a suit, her in long sleeves. Both smiling by the fountain, surrounded by guests and sunlight. It felt like another lifetime.
Hed always been kind. Gentle. Never raised his voice. But hed never stood up for heror himself. His mother was sacred. Untouchable. Above reproach. And if anyone dared disagree, they were the problem.
Theyd married ten years ago. She, a widow; he, a bachelor. His mother had been polite at first. Then suspicious. Then openly disapproving.
“Youre four years older than him,” shed said at their first meeting. “What if you cant have children?”
“Were not planning to,” shed replied.
“And if you change your mind?” his mother pressed. “Late babies in our family are weak. I know what Im talking about.”
Shed wanted to leave then. But hed said, “Give her time. Shes just protective.”
Shed hoped things would improve. That people adapt.
They didnt.
Two days later, the neighbour rang.
“Claire, did you know? Your husbands moved in with his mum. Took his things. Is it for good?”
“I dont know,” she said.
“And that battle-axe of yours was round earlier. Sweeping up. Taking out the bins. Said you were ‘too poorly to clean.'”
Claire went cold.
“Cleaning? She doesnt have a key.”
“Oh, she does,” the neighbour said. “Saw her lock up with her own after hauling out a bag.”
Claire hung up, grabbed her coat, and went home. The door was locked. She used her key. Inside, the hallway smelled of lavenderhis mothers cleaning spray.
Everything was in place, but the air felt disturbed. The doormat was crooked. A gap on the shelf where a vase had been.
She checked the living room. The vase was gone. Just dust on the sill.
Then the bedroom. His wardrobe stood empty, save for a few old shirts. Her drawers were shut, but she knew. Someone had rifled throughher hairbrush wasnt where shed left it.
She sat on the bed. Didnt cry. Just thought: *Hes gone. And shes still here. In my home. With my keys.*
The next day, she went to see them. His mothers place, a peeling pebble-dash house on the outskirts.
His mother opened the door.
“Oh, Claire dear,” she said, smiling. “Come in. James is home.”
“Im not here for James,” Claire said. “Im here for you.”
His mother blinked but stepped aside.
“Tea?” she offered, filling the kettle.
“No,” Claire said. “Im here for my keys.”
“What keys?” his mother asked, avoiding her eyes.
“To *our* flat. You were there yesterday. Cleaning. Without my permission.”
“I didnt touch your flat,” his mother said. “I was helping my son. Hes upset. Stressed. And youve been tormenting him.”
“I havent,” Claire said. “I asked him to protect our marriage. And he walked out.”
“You gave him an ultimatum,” his mother shot back. “‘Me or her.’ What was he supposed to do?”
“I never said that,” Claire said. “I asked him to talk to you. Respectfully. Like family. But he never did. And you know it.”
“I know he loves me,” his mother said. “And youve been trying to come between us.”
“I never wanted that,” Claire said. “I wanted him to be a husband, not just a son. To stand up for me, not run to you every time we hit a rough patch.”
“There *was* no rough patch,” his mother said. “Just you. Your temper. Your nitpicking. Your ‘dont touch my things.'”
“My things *are* mine,” Claire said. “I had a life before him. A home, a job, friends. I married him because I loved himnot to be your maid.”
“Youre not a maid,” his mother scoffed. “Youre his wife. And wives are part of the family.”
“Family isnt just you and him,” Claire said. “Its *us*. And if you cant respect that, youre not family. Youre a stranger.”
His mother paled.
“Youre mad,” she whispered.
“No,” Claire said. “Im finally awake. The keys, please.”
Silently, his mother fetched them from a drawer and handed them over.
“I wont give him up,” she said.
“Hes not a toy,” Claire replied. “Hes a grown man. Let him decide where he belongs.”
A week later, a solicitors letter arrived. Property division. The flat was in his name, but shed paid for renovations, furniture, holidays.
She gathered receipts, contracts, photos. Went to her solicitor.
“Youve got a case,” he said. “Especially if we prove joint contributions.”
“It *was* a joint life,” she said. “He just never spoke up. And I paid the price.”
James returned that evening. No suitcase. Knocked.
She opened the door.
“We need to talk,” he said.
She nodded, let him in.
He sat on the sofa
