I often think back to that bitter winter in a modest Manchester flat, when the house was full of tension and I could already smell the sourness in the air.
Did she really say it like that? I asked my husband, Emma, her voice quivering.
Max gave a slight nod, took a sip from his steaming mug, and grimaced at the heat.
Exactly that. My sister demanded that my mother transfer the lease of the twobedroom flat to her and move out, because Victor had asked her to marry him. The young couple needs somewhere to live, you understand? Max said in a high, irritated tone, almost mimicking Sophies.
I stared at him, unable to believe my ears. It was absurddemanding a property from ones parents as if it were a gift?
What did Mum say? I asked cautiously.
Max shook his head.
Theres no clear answer. But I know Mum well, and I know how much she dotes on Sophie. So anythings possible.
Could a daughter truly evict her own mother? I would never have imagined asking my parents such a thing. I had refused to borrow even a downpayment from them; I saved, bought my own flat, and paid off the mortgage before I was married. That home was my pride, my property.
Remember, Max continued, looking off somewhere, Mum sold the cottage years ago to fund Sophies tuition. And what happened? She dropped out in her second year. Turns out university does require attendance, can you imagine?
I snorted. Your sister has never been the studious type.
Max fell silent. I could see his shoulders tense, his fingers clenched around the mug. What could I say? What advice could I offer? Family matters are never simple.
Days turned into weeks. Max phoned his mother a few times, but each call was brief and strained. I stayed out of it, knowing this was his grief to bear.
One weekend we decided to visit my motherinlaw.
Max slipped the key into the lock. As the door opened, I froze on the threshold. Boxes, bags, rolledup blankets littered the rooms; furniture was stacked against walls, the sofa, the kitchen table. Chaos reigned, the aftermath of a move.
Mum? Max called as we stepped inside.
Helen stepped out of the hallway, her face drawn, shadows under her eyes. I had never seen her look so exhausted.
Max, Emma, come in, she whispered.
Max surveyed the flat and asked directly, Are you giving the flat to Sophie?
Helen sighed, perched on the edge of the sofa, pushing a dishbox aside.
Itll be better this way, love. The young couple needs a place of their own. Victors a good lad with a steady job. I can manage elsewhere.
I stood aside, the fury inside me tightening. How could she give away the only flat she owned? Where would she go?
Where will you live then? Max asked hoarsely.
Ill rent a single room. My pension is modest but itll cover me. Dont worry about me, she replied.
I watched Maxs pallor deepen, his hands trembling, but I said nothing. This was not my battle.
Two months later Helen moved into a rented flat in a different borough. Max visited often, bringing groceries, medicine, helping with chores. I never objected; I understood his sorrow.
One evening Max returned home, shoulders slumped, silence hanging over him. He sank at the kitchen table and stared at the wall.
Whats wrong? I asked, sitting opposite him.
He lifted his eyes slowly. Mum cant get by. Her pension doesnt stretch to rent and bills. Shes barely making ends meet.
I frowned. Then she should move back into her flat.
The flats already in Sophies name, and she wont let Mum back. She says theyre planning renovations and Mum would be in the way, Max explained, as if reading my thoughts.
Then we should take Mum in. We still have our twobedroom flat. Theres enough space, he said.
Her flat, my flatthose words echoed in my head. Yet I stayed silent, allowing him to persuade himself, while inside I fought every instinct to reject his mothers intrusion.
Four days later Helen moved in with us. On the first day she was as gentle as a dandelion, apologising constantly, promising not to be a burden.
I tried to convince myself everything would settle. We had never quarreled with her before; how could we start now?
But after a week the atmosphere shifted.
First, my favourite blue mug vanished.
Helen, have you seen my mug? The one with the flowers? I asked.
She looked startled. Oh, dear Emma, Im sorry. I slipped it while washing dishes. Ill buy you a new one, I promise.
I nodded, trying to brush it off.
The next day the expensive hand cream I kept in the bathroom was gone.
Helen, have you seen my cream? I asked.
She held up an empty jar. I used it on my feet. The airs so dry, my skin was cracking. Its a good cream, by the way.
I clenched my teeth, thinking I could replace it.
The final straw was the meat. I had bought a pricey fillet, intending to fry steaks for dinner. When I came home from work I found a skillet full of cheap mince patties, the loaf of meat replaced by breadcrumbs.
Helen, I tried to keep my voice even, this is expensive meat, not for cheap burgers.
She turned from the stove. I always do it this way. The patties turned out lovely, try one. Whats wrong?
Max, sitting in the living room, pretended not to hear.
Weeks passed and Helen imposed her own order on the flat. Breakfast became porridge and boiled eggs. She scheduled a deep clean every Saturday at eight oclock. Lights out was nine, even on weekends.
I paced the house, barely containing my anger. Max tried to soothe me, asking me to be patient, promising to speak with his mother, but nothing changed.
At dinner I spread cottage cheese on toast, added a slice of tomato. I was exhausted from work, too tired to cook more. Helen grimaced.
You have no taste, Emma. Thats nonsense youre eating.
I lifted my head slowly. Its enough for me.
Youre ruining my sons habits with your laziness, she snapped. He sees you slacking, not washing dishes, not ironing. I raised him to be orderly, but youre erasing my lessons.
My patience snapped.
Ive endured enough, I said coldly. I tried to respect your age, stayed quiet while you broke my things, used my cosmetics, spoiled my food. No more. If its this bad, go back to the flat that was given to your daughter. Dont live in the house I bought with my own money.
Emma! Max leapt up. What are you saying?
What I think! I turned to him. I have my own rules, and first of all, your mother will not stay in my house!
Helens face went pale.
Max! Do you hear what your wife is saying? Stop her! he shouted.
Mom, Emma, lets calm down, Max tried to mediate.
No! I stared at Helen. She can pack up and leave. I dont care where.
We cant throw my mother out! Max raised his voice. Do you understand what youre saying?
My laugh came out hoarse, bitter.
You cant, but I can. By evening, she must be gone.
Max straightened, his expression hard as stone.
If she leaves, Ill go too.
I met his gaze for a long moment.
Oh, have we really come to ultimatums? You quickly forgot the promise to keep your mother calm, asked for a little patience, and now you set conditions? Well played, Max.
Helen burst into tears and fled down the hallway. Max stood in the kitchen, stunned.
We began packing in silence, slowly, without my help. I sat at the kitchen window, watching the emptiness growcold, strange, yet oddly soothing.
An hour later Max and Helen emerged with suitcases, bags, parcels. Max opened the front door, letting his mother step out first, then turned to me.
Emma, lets he began.
I cut him off.
If you still dont get that a mother loves only her daughter and uses you, were better off parting now, before she gets under our skin completely.
I shut the door in his face.
Taking Helen in had been a mistake, but now I saw the truth: Max could never stand up to his mother, and our marriage had no future.
The divorce was quiet. We had no children, no shared assets. Max looked at me with sorrowful eyes, begging forgiveness, promising never to involve his mother again. I was no longer one to give second chances.
