Did she really say that? Emma asked, her voice trembling as she repeated the question to her husband.
James nodded, took a sip from his mug. The tea was scalding, and he winced.
Exactly that, he replied in a high, irritating tone, mimicking his sister. Sophie demanded that Mom transfer the twobedroom flat to her name and move out. Shes engaged to Harry, and the young couple need somewhere to live, you understand?
Emma stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. It was beyond reasondemanding a flat from your own parents? As if it were a simple favour.
And what did Mother say? Emma asked cautiously.
James shook his head.
No clear answer. But I know Mum, and I know how much she dotes on Sophie. So anythings possible.
Was this even conceivable? A daughter kicking her own mother out of the only home she owned? Emma would never have imagined confronting her parents like that. Shed refused even to take a deposit from them; shed saved, bought a flat, paid off the mortgage before she was married, and she took pride in that. It was her house, her property.
You know, James continued, glancing off to the side Mum sold the cottage last year to fund Sophies tuition. And what happened? Sophie dropped out in her second year. Turns out you actually have to study at university, can you imagine?
Emma snorted.
Your sister has never been the diligent type.
James fell silent. Emma saw his shoulders tighten, his fingers clenched around the mug. What could she say? What could she advise? Family was always messy.
Days turned into weeks. James called his mother several times, each conversation short and tense. Emma stayed out of it, knowing this was his pain.
One weekend they decided to visit Jamess mother.
James turned the key in the lock. Emma froze in the doorway. The flat was buried under cardboard boxes, duffel bags, folded blankets. Belongings were stacked against the walls, on the sofa, on the kitchen tabletotal chaos of a move in progress.
Mum? James called as he stepped inside.
Margaret Andrews emerged from the bedroom, her face drawn, dark circles under her eyes. Emma had never seen Jamess mother look so exhausted.
James, Emma, come in, Margaret whispered.
James swept his gaze over the flat, then asked straight away:
Are you giving the flat to Sophie?
Margaret sighed, lowered herself onto the edge of the sofa, nudging a dishtower aside.
Itll be better that way, love. A young couple needs their own place. Harrys a good lad, has a steady job. Ill manage.
Emma stood by, listening. Anger churned inside her. How could anyone give away the only flat they owned? Where would Margaret go?
Where will you live then? James asked hoarsely.
Ill rent a room. My pension isnt much, but itll cover me. Dont worry about me.
Emma watched Jamess face turn ashen, his hands shake. She kept quiet; it wasnt her battle.
Two months later Margaret was living in a rented flat in a different borough. James visited often, bringing groceries, medicine, helping with chores. Emma didnt object; she understood that James was still grieving.
One evening James came home, shoulders slumped, silence hanging thick.
Whats wrong? Emma asked, sitting opposite him at the kitchen table.
He lifted his eyes slowly.
Mum cant make ends meet. The pension barely covers the rent. Shes barely scraping by.
Emma frowned.
Then she should move back into her flat.
Its already in Sophies name, and she wont let Mum back. She says theyre planning renovations and Mum would get in the way.
Emma sensed where this was heading. She waited for the inevitable.
James, as if reading her thoughts, spoke:
We should take Mum in. We have the spare flat. Therell be room.
Her flat. Her flat. The words echoed in Emmas mind. She stayed silent, letting James convince himself, even as every fibre of her being rebelled. How could she say she didnt want to let in the mother who had been forced out by her own daughter? It would be cruel.
Four days later Margaret moved in with them. On the first day she was like a nervous daisysoft, apologetic, promising not to be a burden.
Emma tried to convince herself that everything would be fine. Theyd never argued with Margaret before. What could go wrong?
But after a week things began to shift.
First, Emmas favourite blue mug with the roses vanished.
Margaret, have you seen my mug? The blue one? Emma asked.
Margaret hesitated.
Oh, dear, Im sorry. I dropped it while washing dishes. Ill replace it, I promise.
Emma nodded. It was nothing, she told herself.
The next day, the expensive face cream Emma bought from a boutique was missing from the bathroom. The almostfull jar had simply vanished.
Margaret, have you seen my cream? Emma asked.
Ah, that? Margaret held up an empty tube. I used it on my feet. The airs so dry, my skins cracking. Its a good cream, really.
Emma clenched her jaw. She could replace it.
The final straw was the meat. Emma had bought a pricey ribeye, planning to make steaks for dinner. When she got home from work, the skillet held greasy meatballs, the mince filled more breadcrumbs than beef.
Margaret, Emma tried to stay calm, this is expensive meat. Not for meatballs.
Margaret turned from the stove.
I always do it this way. The meatballs are lovely, try them. Whats wrong?
James, on the sofa, pretended not to hear.
Weeks passed, and Margaret imposed her own rules. Breakfast became only porridge and boiled eggs. Once a week she organized a deep clean starting at eight on Saturday mornings. No one was allowed to stay up past nine, even on weekends.
Emma walked the flat, barely containing her fury. James kept soothing her, promising to speak with his mother, but nothing changed.
At dinner Emma spread cottage cheese on toast, added a slice of tomato, exhausted from work and not wanting to cook anything elaborate.
You have no taste, Emma, Margaret snapped. Thats rubbish youre eating.
Emma lifted her head slowly.
Its fine for me.
Youre ruining my son with your habits, Margaret shot back, voice rising. James sees you lounging, not washing dishes right away, not ironing his shirts. I raised him to be tidy, disciplined. You tear down everything I taught him.
Emmas patience cracked.
Ive had enough, she said coldly. I tried to respect your age, kept quiet while you broke my things, used my cosmetics, ruined my food. No more. If its this bad, go back to the flat you gave to your daughter. Dont live in my house, which I bought with my own money.
Emma! James leapt up. What are you saying?!
Exactly what I think! Emma turned to him. I have my own house rules, and rule number one: your mother will not live in my home!
Margarets face went pallid.
James! Do you hear what your wife is saying? Stop her!
Mum, Emma, lets calm down, James tried to mediate.
No! Emma stared at Margaret. Let her pack and leave. I dont care where.
We cant evict my mother! James shouted, voice cracking. Do you realise what youre saying?
Emma laughed, a harsh, bitter sound.
You cant. But I can. By evening, she wont be here.
James straightened, his expression turning to stone.
If she leaves, Im leaving too.
Emma held his gaze, the silence thick.
Oh, have we come to ultimatums? You forgot you promised to keep your mother under control. You asked me to be patient, and now you set conditions? Well done, James.
Margaret broke into sobs and fled down the hallway. James stood in the kitchen, stunned.
They began to pack, slowly, wordlessly. Emma didnt help; she sat at the kitchen table, staring out the window at a bleak, cold emptiness that somehow felt oddly soothing.
An hour later James and Margaret emerged into the hallway, suitcases and bags in hand. James opened the front door, letting his mother step out first. He turned to Emma.
Emma, we
She cut him off.
If you still dont get it that a mother loves her daughter and uses you, we should part now, before she burrows any deeper into our lives.
Emma walked to the door and slammed it shut in Jamess face.
Taking Margaret in had been a mistake. Now Emma saw the truth: James could never stand up to his mother, and their marriage had no future.
The divorce was quiet. No children, no joint assets. James looked at her with pleading eyes, begging for forgiveness, promising never to involve his mother again. Emma had long stopped believing in second chances.
