“You’ll manage,” Lydia muttered under her breath, voice barely louder than the hum of the kettle.
“Are you having me on? You cant even sort the bloody bills!” Her mothers hands trembled around a crumpled receipt. “A grown woman! Clever enough to have a child, but not clever enough to take care of yourself?”
Marina stood motionless in the middle of the kitchen, eyes fixed on the frayed sock slipping off her foot. She hunched her shoulders, as if trying to fold herself smaller, invisible.
“Mum, Im sorry,” she mumbled. “I got back late last night, completely forgot.”
“And I suppose I didnt?”
Lydias gaze swept the tableporridge crusted in a saucepan, crumbs scattered like confetti, a grimy chopping board abandoned mid-task. Chaos, always waiting for her to tidy it. Marina claimed it “didnt bother her.”
“We agreed,” Lydia pressed on. “You swore youd at least handle the utilities. Said youd found extra work. Where is it? Im the one getting your daughter ready for school, buying her clothes, feeding us all. Me. Always me. And you? Swanning about!”
Marinas shoulders slumped in that infuriating way, mouth opening to protestbut Lydia wasnt listening. She stalked around the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors without purpose, just somewhere to put the anger.
Marina was thirty-four. Not a girl anymore, yet her wide, hopeful eyes still begged for someone to carry her. Now she clung to Lydias shoulders, and Lydia was sick of the weight.
In the living room, the clatter of toys grew louder. Seven-year-old Ella, drowning out the shouting with noise.
“Ella can hear,” Marina whispered. “Shes upset. Please stop yelling.”
“Then stop giving me reason to!” Lydia snapped, then bit her tongue. “Fine. Take the bills. Sort it. Today. Not tomorrow. Without me.”
Marina nodded, scuttling off like a chastened schoolgirl. Some things never changed.
Alone, Lydia sagged onto a chair, finally letting the exhaustion bow her spine.
Simon, Marinas ex, had crashed into their lives like a poorly parked car. Charming, poetic, guitar-strumming Simon, who waxed lyrical about lifes meaning between glasses of wine. They married in a whirlwind. Ella arrived just as fast. Simon promised to stayuntil he didnt. Always vanishing”needing space,” “seeing mates,” “finding himself,” reeking of liquor when he stumbled home.
Lydia had known it wouldnt last. No one listened. Marina even took offence. Shed hoped theyd “rub along.” Then, two years in, Simon sent a text”Better for everyone”and vanished. No sightings. No child support.
Marina came home with a toddler and a box of belongings. Lydia had dreamed of retirement, of holidays. Those dreams went into a drawer, gathering dust.
“Just until were back on our feet,” Marina said that first day.
“Lean on me,” Lydia promised.
Six years later, they were still leaning.
Lydia scrubbed the porridge pot, remembering herself at Marinas agetwo children, a husband with a failing liver, shifts at the post office. No room for forgetfulness. No safety net. When he died, the weight only grew heavier. Shed clung on by her teeth, or shed have drowned.
Now, watching Marina, the same question gnawed: *Why cant you, when I could?*
Marina emerged later, eyes red, phone in hand.
“I looked it up. Ill pay tomorrow,” she said. “Only Mum, maybe we could do it together?”
Lydia stared, weariness thick as fog. “Together” meant Lydia worked while Marina hovered.
“Fine. But tomorrow. No excuses.”
Marina nodded, edging closer on the sofa. Lydia shifted away.
“Mum are you cross with me?”
“Its not anger. Its disappointment.”
Marinas hand brushed hersa touch that felt distant, gloved.
Monday morning passed in a blur of burnt toast and frayed nerves. Then her phone rang. Michael, from work. Quiet, unassuming Michael, whod once brought her coffee after noticing the shadows under her eyes.
“Fancy a weekend in Brighton? Friends got a flat. Cheap. Sea air, if not a swim.”
Lydia froze. The idea was outrageous. Tempting.
“Me? Brighton?”
“Why not?” He chuckled. “Were grown. Free. No little ones.”
A thousand responsibilities clamoured in her head. But beneath them, a whisper: *Just once. Breathe.*
“Let me think,” she lied.
That evening, when Lydia mentioned the trip, Marina stiffened.
“Butthe theme park? You promised!”
“Go without me. Its not the end of the world.”
“I told Ella youd come!” Marinas voice spiked. “Youre ditching us for some bloke?!”
Lydia exhaled sharply.
“Its not about him. Its about me wanting *one* thing for myself. Forgive me for having desires.”
“Fine. I see how it is.” Marina stormed off, door slamming.
Brighton was crisp, salt tang sharp in the air. Michael walked with her along the pier, arm linked in hers like theyd done it for decades. Over wine and mussels that evening, he asked, “You dont get out much, do you?”
“Id love to. No time.” The words hung, heavy. Then, unprompted: “Marinas lived with me six years since the divorce. Always about to move out. Never does. Never lifts a finger.”
“Maybe thats the problem,” he mused. “Mum coddled my brother same way. He never learned.” He sipped his wine. “Wont change while youre there.”
Lydia knew what came next.
“We live in *my* flat. Where would I go? *She* should leave.”
“And yet she hasnt,” he said simply. “Stay with me, if you like. Plenty of space.”
The offer was casual, as if suggesting tea. Something in her chest stuttered.
“Fine. But no roast dinners every night.”
“Deal. Ill cook alternate Sundays.”
She smiled. Then a memory surfaced
“Marina, put your hat on,” her own mother had snapped. “And dont wander off.”
Once, theyd lived four-deep: Lydia, her mother, Marina, and her brother. Her husband long gone. Her brother left young. Three women left, fussing over Marinahelping with homework, pleading with teachers. At the time, it felt like love. Now, she wasnt sure.
Marina grew up under glass. Decisions made for her, paths smoothed. And she still lived that way.
It had to stop.
Lydia packed a bag the day after returning. No warning. Just a note: *Living apart for now. Youll manage. Im here, but I cant stay.*
First, Marina raged. Then panicked. Thenrealised.
Chaos followed. The internet cut off on day threeunpaid bill. Marina raced through rain to find a paypoint, boots soaking, throat raw by evening.
“Mum, the tablet wont load,” Ella whined.
“Read a book,” Marina snappedthen froze. Her mothers words, in her mouth.
The fridge emptied fast. She took a cleaning job, hands blistering by shifts end. But the money appeared. Andshe could. Barely, but she could.
A week later, a proper jobcustomer service for a delivery firm. Steady pay. Double alarms. No more oversleeping.
She remembered nowbills, school meetings, groceries.
When Lydia visited a month later, she gaped. Towels folded, dishes gleaming. Marina and Ella making dumplings. Warmth, even an offer of dinner.
Later, Lydia steeled herself. “Marina, Im renting the flat out. Michael and Iits working. But I need to think about my pension.”
Marina stilled. “So youre kicking us out?”
“No. Giving you room to *live* in it. You knew I couldnt prop you up forever.”
Silence. Then a tight nod. “Fine. Ill find a place. Justgive me time.”
“Of course. Were adults. This is a talk, not an ultimatum.”
On moving day, the flat was spotless. A scented candle flickered on the table. A note on the fridge: *Thank you. I managed. Visit soon.* Even the last months rent, paid in full.
As Lydia left, it feltnot like closing a door, but opening a window. Her daughter, finally grown.
