*”We want privacy, not your advice,”* said the son, glancing at his wife.
*”Eleanor, wheres your mother today?”* asked Margaret Wilkins, peering over her thick spectacles at her young daughter-in-law. *”She promised to come and help with the salads.”*
*”Shes busy,”* Eleanor replied shortly, slicing cucumbers. *”Got held up at work.”*
*”Again?”* Margaret sighed. *”And what about family? When will you give me grandchildren? Youre both in your thirtieshardly children yourselves.”*
Eleanor gripped the knife tighter but said nothing. The television flickered to life in the parlourAndrew had returned from the garden, where hed spent the day pottering about.
*”Andrew, love!”* Margaret called. *”Come and help set the table.”*
*”In a moment, Mum,”* he answered, but didnt move from the sofa.
Margaret sighed again and began retrieving the best china from the cupboard. Tomorrow, her sister and brother-in-law were arriving from York for a grand family luncheon.
*”Eleanor, did you wash those tomatoes properly?”* Margaret asked, peering into the bowl. *”My stomachs delicateif anythings not right, Ill know.”*
*”Theyre washed, Mrs. Wilkins,”* Eleanor replied evenly.
*”And those cucumbersyoure slicing them too thin. Men prefer something heartier. Andrews always been that waya salad should fill you up.”*
Eleanor paused and looked up.
*”Perhaps youd like to cut them yourself, then?”*
*”Oh, dont be silly, dear,”* Margaret flapped her hands. *”Im only offering guidance. Forty years Ive run this kitchenyoure young yet, still learning.”*
Andrew shuffled in, wearing worn slippers and an old jumper, his hair tousled, a smudge of dirt on his cheek.
*”Hows it coming, ladies?”* he grinned. *”Feeding an army, are we?”*
*”Trying to,”* Margaret said. *”Though you might do with a wash and a change. Look at the state of you!”*
*”Mum, Im at home,”* Andrew said, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge. *”Letting off steam after work.”*
*”At home or not, one must keep standards. What must Eleanor think, seeing you like this?”*
Eleanor turned sharply.
*”Mrs. Wilkins, I love my husband as he iswork clothes and all.”*
*”Oh, of course, of course,”* Margaret agreed. *”But love is love, and order is order. Mrs. Thompson next doorher son-in-laws always immaculate. At home, at work, never a hair out of place.”*
*”And what does Mrs. Thompsons son-in-law do?”* Andrew asked, draining his water.
*”Some sort of manager. Sits in an officenever a speck on him.”*
*”Im on a building site, Mum. Cant exactly wear a suit.”*
*”I understand that. But once youre home, you might tidy up a bit.”*
Andrew waved her off and left. Eleanor kept slicing, ignoring Margarets pointed looks.
*”Theres another thing,”* Margaret said, perching on a stool. *”That television of yours in the bedroomits far too loud in the evenings. My rooms right next doorI cant sleep for it.”*
*”We dont have it loud,”* Eleanor objected.
*”You do. And your voices carry. Last night, I was awake till midnight.”*
Eleanor felt her face flush. Last night, she and Andrew *had* talked latethough the conversation had been private, the television merely masking their voices.
*”Mrs. Wilkins, perhaps earplugs would help?”* she suggested. *”The chemist sells good ones.”*
*”Earplugs? In my own home?”* Margaret huffed. *”Its you who ought to mind your noiseshow some consideration.”*
Andrew reappeared, freshly changed.
*”Whats all this?”* he asked, noting the tension.
*”Just reminding Eleanor about keeping quiet at night,”* Margaret said. *”One cant sleep for your racket.”*
*”What racket?”* Andrew frowned.
*”Your television, your chatter. Last night, I was awake till all hours.”*
Andrew exchanged a glance with Eleanor, who turned to the window.
*”Mum, we try to be quiet,”* he said carefully.
*”Try harder. One ought to have peace in ones own home.”*
*”Mrs. Wilkins,”* Eleanor said tightly, *”perhaps we ought to move out? Rent somewhere, so we dont disturb you.”*
Margaret gasped.
*”Move out? And wholl help me? Im not as young as I wasthis house is too much alone. And the garden!”*
*”Wed visit,”* Andrew said. *”Help when needed.”*
*”Visit!”* Margaret threw up her hands. *”And if I took ill? If something happened? The neighbours are too far to hear! No, nowere family. We stay together.”*
*”Then there must be respect,”* Eleanor said firmly. *”Family means respecting one anothers lives.”*
*”Of course, respect! Havent I always respected you? I only offer advicewhats best.”*
Andrew sighed and sat at the table.
*”Mum, enough advice for one day. Eleanors had a long day.”*
*”What have I said thats so wrong?”* Margaret protested. *”Just common sense, thats all.”*
*”We dont need your common sense,”* Eleanor snapped. *”Well live as we see fit.”*
Margarets lips pursed.
*”So Im in the way in my own home? Forty years Ive lived here, and now Im a nuisance.”*
*”No one said that,”* Eleanor softened her tone. *”But every couple needs privacy.”*
*”Privacy!”* Margaret scoffed. *”And who does your washing? Your cooking? Your cleaning? Is that privacy too?”*
*”We never asked you to do those things,”* Eleanor said. *”We can manage.”*
*”Oh, can you? With both of you working all hours? Im retiredIve time to spare. Thought I was helping.”*
Andrew stood and walked to the window. Outside, dusk had fallen, lamplights flickering on.
*”Listen,”* he said without turning. *”Lets settle this properly. Mum, were grateful for your help. But sometimes we just want to be aloneno advice, no interference.”*
*”So Im to stay in my room like a ghost?”* Margaret demanded.
*”No,”* Andrew turned. *”Be with ustalk, laugh. But dont meddle in our private affairs.”*
*”And what are *private affairs*? Id like to know.”*
Eleanor set down the knife and wiped her hands.
*”Mrs. Wilkins, surely you understand? Were husband and wife. We have our own lives, our own plans.”*
*”What plans? You live under my roofits not some desert island!”*
*”Our own family,”* Andrew said. *”Youre part of the wider one, but not ours.”*
Margarets hands flew up.
*”So Im not family now! My own soncasting me aside!”*
*”Youre twisting it,”* Eleanor began, but Margaret cut in.
*”No, I see quite clearly! Driving your own mother out! Forty years here, raising children, and now Im in the way!”*
*”Mum, dont be dramatic,”* Andrew said wearily. *”No ones driving you out.”*
*”Then what? In my own home, Ive no right to speak?”*
*”You do,”* Eleanor said. *”But not about everything. Not how we talk, how we dress, when we have children.”*
*”Im not *forcing* you! But a grandmother longs for grandchildren.”*
*”Youll have them when were ready,”* Andrew said.
*”And when will that be? Youre not getting any younger!”*
*”Thereyou see?”* Eleanor gestured. *”More advice, more interference.”*
Margaret sniffed indignantly.
*”Advice, interference… In my day, elders were respected. Their wisdom *valued*.”*
*”Times change,”* Eleanor said. *”People used to live crammed togethernow they value space.”*
*”Oh, times change, do they?”* Margaret mocked. *”And whats it brought? Divorce, loneliness. Mrs. Hartleys son moved outnow shes alone, and hes divorced!”*
*”Mum, Eleanor and I arent divorcing,”* Andrew said. *”We just want to live normally.”*
*”And whats *abnormal* here?”*
Andrew looked from Eleanor to his mother.
*”That we cant talk at night without being overheard. That every choice is picked apart. That Eleanor hesitates to even leave our room.”*
*”Hesitates? Why ever for?”*
*”Your comments,”* Eleanor said plainly. *”You always find fault.”*
*”I dont *fault*! I guide!”*
*”We dont need guiding,”* Andrew said sharply. *”We want privacynot your advice,”* he added, meeting Eleanors eyes.
Margaret stood as if struck.
*”Dont need my advice!”* she repeated, voice trembling. *”Forty years a motherand my counsels worthless!”*
*”Mum, dont”* Andrew stepped forward, but she waved him off.
*”If my advice isnt wanted, then neither am I!”*
She fled, the kitchen door slamming behind her. Andrew and Eleanor were alone.
*”There,”* Eleanor sighed. *”Now shell sulk for a week.”*
*”What choice do we have?”* Andrew spread his hands. *”Endure it forever?”*
From Margarets room, the television blaredloud, deliberate.
*”Should we really move out?”* Eleanor whispered.
*”Leave her alone? Shes seventyher healths not what it was.”*
*”Then we go on like this?”*
Andrew pulled her close.
*”I dont know. Maybe shell adjust… understand…”*
Eleanor leaned into him.
*”I just want us to be happy. Without anyone prying.”*
*”So do I.”*
They stood embraced as the televisions noise swelled next doorMargarets pointed protest.
*”Tell you what,”* Andrew said suddenly. *”Tomorrow, after the luncheon, well see an estate agent. See whats available.”*
*”And your mother?”*
*”Let her be alone awhile. Maybe shell see were her childrennot her servants.”*
Eleanor nodded. For the first time in ages, relief washed over her.
*”Dont tell her yet,”* she murmured. *”Let her calm down.”*
*”Of course.”*
They finished the salads in silence, each lost in thought. Eleanor imagined a small flatjust theirs. Where they could speak freely. Laugh. *Live.*
Andrew thought of his mother. Would she ever accept it? See that grown children need space? Or would she forever think them ungrateful?
Next door, the television droned onMargarets defiance unabated.
*”What if shes right?”* Eleanor asked suddenly. *”What if we *are* ungrateful?”*
*”Ungrateful for what? Wanting our own lives?”*
*”For her care. Her help…”*
*”We never asked for that kind of help, love. We can cook. Clean. Live.”*
*”Maybe shes just lonely. A retired woman with too much time…”*
*”Then let her find hobbies. Friends. Not meddle in *our* family.”*
Eleanor nodded, but doubts lingered. Margaret *was* Andrews mother. Shed raised him, sacrificed for him. Now she wanted to remain part of his life.
But *part* was different from *controller*. And Margaret wanted control.
The table was set, the salads done. Tomorrow, guests would arrive, and theyd play the happy family. Smile. Chatter. Pretend.
And after? The comments would resume. The judgements. The intrusions.
*”Its decided,”* Andrew said, as if reading her mind. *”We start flat-hunting tomorrow.”*
*”And if she cuts ties?”*
*”Then thats her choice,”* he said firmly. *”Well visit. Help. Care. But as equalsnot subjects.”*
Eleanor squeezed his hand.
*”Thank you,”* she whispered.
*”For what?”*
*”For choosing me. Not her.”*
Andrew held her tight.
*”Youre my wife. My closest. And no one comes between us.”*
Next door, the television clicked off. Margaret was retiring. Tomorrow, she might pretend nothing had happened. Or she might sulk harder.
But it no longer mattered. The decision was made.
Eleanor pictured tomorrowthe luncheon, the guests, the charade. And then, that evening, viewing flats. Their future. Their freedom.
At last, theyd live as *they* wished. Not as Margaret Wilkins decreed.
