Your things are already packed, said Margaret, the motherinlaw, and set the suitcase by the door.
Excuse me! What do you think youre doing? Emily slammed her hand on the kitchen table, fighting to keep her voice from soaring. This is my home too, you know!
Your home? Margaret smirked, wiping her hands on her apron. Mark is my son, the flat is legally his. Youd better watch the language.
Eight years Ive lived in this flat! Eight! And you have no right
I have every right, love. Now fetch that pot from the table; Im about to cook lunch. Im not a guest in your kitchen, Im the one who runs it.
Emily snatched the pot with such sudden force the beetroot soup nearly spilled. Her hands trembled, her temples throbbed. Margaret had arrived three days ago, and in three short days the flat was turned upsidedownat least, as Margaret saw it.
I understand youre worried about your son, but
Im not worried. I know what Im doing. You, dear, think only of yourself. Mark is in hospital and youre busy simmering soup.
I visit him every day! Emily snapped. Hes in for a procedure right now.
Procedures, right. And you sit at home, cooking for yourself. If you were a proper wife youd be there by his side constantly.
Emily set the pot back, exhaled slowly, and tried to count to ten as shed once learned in a selfhelp book. One, two, three The numbers dissolved before she could finish.
You know what? she whispered, voice barely audible. Do whatever you want. Im going for a walk.
She threw on her coat, slipped her feet into boots without even tying the laces, and fled the flat. On the landing she pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall, breathed deeply, and counted each inhale and exhale. Inside her, a tiny volcano rumbled, furious and ready to erupt.
Mark had been admitted a week earlierappendicitis, routine operation, but complications set his recovery back. Emily had been sleepless, darting between work and the ward, her nerves frayed. Then Margaret arrived like a storm, straight from a provincial town, claimed the master bedroom, and relegated Emily to the sofa in the lounge.
Emily trudged down the stairs, out into the crisp October wind that whipped her hair and lifted the hem of her coat. She perched on a bench by the entrance hall and lit a cigarette, the smoke curling up like a question mark. Her nerves were raw.
Emily, whats the matter? called out her neighbour, Dorothy Clarke, pushing a shopping bag along the pavement. You look pale.
Just a bit tired, Dorothy, Emily replied, trying to smile.
Your motherinlaws here, I hear. Is she helping?
Emily gave a thin grin. Shes helping in her own way.
Dorothy sat down beside her, a woman in her early sixties, her life spent raising children who had long since moved away. You know, dear, mothersinlaw come in all shapes. Mine was a bit of a controlfreak too. I learned one thing early on.
Whats that?
That its her twisted way of showing love. Its wrong, its oppressive, but she doesnt know any other language.
Margaret only cares about Mark. She tolerates me.
Maybe shes scared of losing control. Hes her only child now, and shes already seventythree. She fears becoming useless. With Mark in hospital she cant show it, but the anxiety is there.
Emily stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. Living with her is impossible, Dorothy. Shell drive me mad.
Youll survive. Mark will be out, shell go away.
If she decides to stay.
Dorothy patted Emilys shoulder and walked on, leaving Emily alone with her thoughts, replaying how it all began.
She had first met Mark at work. Hed walked into their office to settle a contract, she was hurrying between meetings with a stack of files. Their papers collided, and he knelt to help pick them up, flashing a grin that revealed a dimple on his chin. He invited her to a café; she accepted. He courted her the oldfashioned wayflowers, earnest compliments. At thirtytwo, Emily was still single, though shed had a few proposals. Her career left little room for romance, and then Mark appeared: attentive, considerate.
He mentioned his mother barely, only that she lived in a small town up north and he saw her a few times a year. His father had long been gone. Emily never thought much of ituntil the wedding.
Margaret arrived, a wiry woman with tightly coiled grey hair pulled into a bun. She inspected Emily as one might appraise livestock at a market, each comment laced with a subtle barb.
The dress is lovely, but a bit too snug, she said.
Hold the bouquet correctly, or youll look like a witchs broom.
Mark, are you sure? Isnt it a little early?
Mark laughed it off, reassuring his mother was just nervous. The wedding went ahead, Margaret left, and Emily breathed a sigh of relief.
But the calls begandaily, relentless. Margaret asked Mark about everything, offered unsolicited advice, complained at length. Mark listened, nodded, and never defended Emily. When she tried to speak up, he fell silent.
Soon Margaret started staying over more often, rearranging furniture, cooking only what Mark liked, ignoring Emilys attempts at hospitality. She critiqued Emilys cleaning, her outfits, her cooking.
Mark, have you thought of getting a new haircut? Its rather dated, Margaret would say.
Emily, dear, why dont you try a different dress? It would suit you better, shed add, eyes cold as steel.
Emily felt trapped in a cold, prickly gaze, as if Margaret tolerated her only out of politeness while secretly deeming her an intruder.
Eight years passed without children. Doctors shrugged, blaming stress and age. Margaret hinted that Emily was to blame for Marks lingering health issues. Mark stayed mute, and Emily wept into her pillow at night, hoping no one would hear.
Eventually Margarets visits thinned; Emily learned not to react to the slights. They livedhardly happily, but not in outright torment.
Then Mark fell ill again. Margaret burst in three hours after the call, lugging a massive suitcase, a handful of pots, and a determined stare.
Im staying for a while. Mark cant be left unsupervised, she declared.
Emily rose from the bench, shook off her coat, and headed back inside. The hallway held a familiar suitcaseher old, blue, battered one.
Margaret emerged, hands still damp from washing. Your things are already packed, she said, nodding toward the suitcase by the door. You can take them.
Emily froze, her world narrowing to a ringing in her ears.
What? You you understood me perfectly. Mark needs peace, not your tantrums. He called me, said youre always on edge. While hes sick, its best you live elsewhere.
Mark called? Thats not true, Emily gasped, breath shallow.
Its true, love. He asked me to send you away, not forever, just until he gets better. Stay with a friend, perhaps.
Emily shuffled to the suitcase, opened it, and saw her clothes piled haphazardlydresses, sweaters, underwear. You have no right, she whispered.
I have every right. Im his mother, and I know what he needs.
Emily lifted her head, met Margarets stonecold stare. Did you call Mark?
Yes, Ill call him now. Hell confirm everything.
Emily fumbled for her phone, dialed Marks number, and waited as the line rang. A groggy, weak voice finally answered.
Hello?
Mark, its me. Your mother says you asked her to send me away. Is that true?
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Emily Mom thinks its best. I cant afford to argue right now, Mark muttered.
…you want me to leave? Emilys voice cracked.
Just give us a few weeks. Ill be better, and then
The call ended. Emily slumped onto the hallway floor, back against the wall, while Margaret watched, a victorious smile playing on her lips.
Take your suitcase and go, Margaret said calmly.
Emily closed her eyes, feeling as if a taut rope finally snapped. Pain surged, then a strange, distant relief.
Fine, she whispered. Im leaving.
She hoisted the heavy suitcase, its contents crushed beneath Margarets hand, slipped on her coat, and stopped at the doorway.
You know what, Margaret? Im not coming back.
How can you not come back? Mark
Let him stay with you. If youre more important to him than I am, then he cant stand up for me even now. Ive endured your barbs for eight years, hoping it would pass. Standing on this stairwell, I realised I dont have to tolerate any more.
Margarets face went ashen.
You dare! Mark wont let you go!
Well see.
Emily opened the front door, stepped onto the street, and called her friend Sarah.
Sarah, can I crash at yours? Ive got my things, Ill explain later.
She got into a taxi, gave the driver the address of Sarahs flat in Croydon, and watched the city glide pastbrick terraces, autumn trees shedding gold leaves, the distant hum of traffic. She thought of Mark, the man shed loved, the love that had become a forced contract, a habit, a fear of being alone.
He never defended her. When his mother snarled, he fell silent. When Emily needed support, he withdrew. It was easier to stay, to keep the façade of a marriage, to avoid the unknown.
The taxi stopped. Sarah opened the door in a soft cardigan, a mug of tea in hand.
Emily, what happened? she asked.
Can I stay for a while? Just until I find somewhere of my own, Emily replied.
Of course. Come in, tell me everything.
They sat at the kitchen table into the night. Emily wept, laughed, and confessed everything. Sarah listened, nodded, refilled the tea.
You know, Emily, I always thought you were too good for Mark, Sarah said gently.
Really?
Smart, beautiful, hardworking. Hes well, hes been a pawn of his mothers control.
Im filing for divorce, Emily said finally.
Sarah squeezed her hand. Its what you deserve.
Weeks later Mark was discharged, pleading for Emily to return. The house is empty, Moms gone, I miss you, he said over the phone.
Im not coming back, Mark, Emily replied, cold resolve in her tone. Eight years of abuse Im done.
She hung up, and Marks calls faded away.
Emily found a modest studio flat in a leafy suburb, moved her belongings, and started anewwork, walks, books, life. For the first time in years she felt truly alive.
A month later Margaret called, asking to meet. Emily agreed, curiosity outweighing resentment.
They met in a quiet café. Margaret, now frail and stooped, sipped tea.
Emily, I need to talk, she began.
Go on.
Mark is disappearing, not eating, saying you wont talk to him. I thought youd forgive everything. I never meant to hurt you.
Emily smiled faintly. Margaret, eight years of humiliation, eight. Mark stayed silent. You turned my home into a servants quarters, packed my suitcase as if I were luggage. He agreed. Do you think Ill ever forget?
Margaret lowered her eyes. Ive lived scared that Mark would leave me, as my own husband did when our son was three. I overprotected him, feared hed go. Then you appeared, and I thought youd take him from me.
I never took him, Emily replied. I just wanted a life of my own.
Margarets voice trembled. I didnt realize youd see it that way. I thought it was temporary.
It wasnt. It was the last straw.
Silence settled. Margaret finally whispered, Im sorry.
Emily took a deep breath, looking at the lined hands that clutched the teacup. I forgive you, Margaret, but it changes nothing. I wont go back to Mark.
What if he changes?
He wont. He likes things the way they aremother nearby, wife obedient.
Margaret stood, tears glistening. Goodbye then, Emily.
Goodbye, Emily said, finishing her tea, and walked out onto the bustling street. The world seemed brighter, the weight of years finally lifted. The suitcase at the door had been a signalnot an end, but a beginning.
A year later Emily switched jobs, met a new partner, Sam, a kind man who respected her space. Over coffee, Sam asked, Do you ever regret the divorce?
No, Emily replied, smiling. The suitcase was a reminder that it was time to leave. Eight years? Just experience. I now know what I wont accept again.
She gazed out at the autumnal city, leaves swirling, a golden carpet over the pavement, winter looming, then spring. Life turned in cycles, each time anew.
Sometimes you must walk away to discover yourself. Sometimes loss is the path to gain. The suitcase at the door was never a final stoponly the first step onto a new road.
