“You asked me not to interfere,” said the husband, and he left for his mothers.
She sat on the edge of the sofa, wearing the same grey jumper shed knitted a year ago while he was illwarm, with twisted cables along the sides. Her hands rested on her knees as if nailed there.
“Are you serious?” she asked, voice steady. “Youre leaving? Now?”
“When else?” he replied. “Before you decide how I should live again? Before you tell me what to do?”
“I never told you how to live,” she said. “I only said your mother interferes too much. That she calls every day, turns up unannounced, touches my things, crosses boundaries.”
“And then you said I had to choose,” he reminded her. “Her or you.”
“I never said that,” she countered. “I asked you to talk to her. To explain that were a family. That we have our own life. Not to choose.”
“You said, ‘Her or me,'” he insisted, setting the suitcase down. “I remember every word. You said it in the kitchen when she brought strawberries you never asked for. And you shouted, ‘She acts like this is her house! When does it end?'”
“Yes, I shouted,” she admitted. “Because she arrived at six in the morning, woke us up, dumped a bag of fruit on the table, said, ‘You should wash the windows, love, its all dusty in here,’ and then went to the loo like she lived here. I dont mind visitors, but I need my own space. Is that a crime?”
“You called her ‘that woman,'” he said. “‘Shes here again.’ ‘She wont leave.’ I heard it every time she left.”
“I didnt use her name because she didnt act like a guest,” the woman said. “She acted like the lady of the house. And I was just the lodger. You saw how she rearranged the furniture, moved your things, cleared my books from the shelf because ‘they made a mess.'”
“She was only trying to help,” he said, but his voice wavered.
“Help?” she echoed. “Like when she washed my wool dress and it shrunk? Was that helping? Or when she threw out my medicine because ‘its all chemicals’? Or when she told the neighbour I was ‘having a breakdown’? Was that help?”
He was silent. Staring at the floor.
“I never asked you to choose,” she repeated. “I asked you to stand by me. To defend us. But you stayed quiet. Every time. You let her talk about me in front of you, look down on me, interfere. And now, when I finally say its unbearable, you walk out? Just like that?”
“You dont understand,” he said. “Shes all I have left. My fathers gone, my sisters in another cityIm her only support. And you want me to tell her, ‘Mum, youre not needed anymore’?”
“I dont want that,” she said softly. “I want you to say, ‘Mum, we love you, but we have our own family. Visit when we invite you. Call before you come. Dont touch my wifes things.’ Is that so hard?”
“You dont know how she took Dads death,” he said. “Shes fragile. Nervous. She needs stability.”
“And what about me?” she asked. “Dont I need stability? Dont I need a family where I dont feel like an outsider?”
He didnt answer. Picked up the suitcase and walked to the door.
“Will you come back?” she asked.
“I dont know,” he said. “Not until you understand I cant choose between you.”
The door closed. The latch clicked. The flat fell silent, save for the ticking of the hallway clock.
She didnt cry. Just sat there, staring at the wall where their wedding photo hung. Him at forty-two, her at thirty-eight. Him in a suit, her in a long-sleeved dress. Standing by a fountain, smiling. Guests, flowers, sunshine behind them. It felt like another life.
Hed always been kind. Gentle. Never raised his voice. But never stood up for heror himselfeither. His mother was sacred. His mother was righteous. His mother was the victim. And if anyone disagreed, they were the problem.
Theyd married ten years ago. She, a widow. He, a bachelor. His mother had accepted her at firstcoolly. Then with suspicion. Then with open disapproval.
“Youre four years older,” shed said at their first meeting. “What if you cant have children?”
“Were not planning to,” shed replied.
“But what if you change your mind?” his mother pressed. “Late babies in our family are weak. I know what Im talking about.”
Shed wanted to leave. But hed said, “Wait, dont. Shes just worried about me.”
Back then, shed thought, *Fine. Itll work out. People adapt.*
They didnt.
Two days later, the neighbour called.
“Ellen, have you seen? Your husbands gone to his mums. Took his things. Is it for good?”
“I dont know,” she said.
“And that battle-axe of yours was round yours today. With a broom. Taking out the bins. Said, ‘My daughter-in-laws poorly, cant keep up.'”
Ellen went cold.
“Howhow was she inside? She doesnt have keys.”
“Oh, but she does,” said the neighbour. “Saw her lock up with her own after leaving with a bag.”
Ellen hung up, pulled on her coat, and went home. The door was locked. She dug out her key. Opened it. The hall smelled of lavenderthe same his mother used for cleaning.
Everything was in its place, but the air hummed with intrusion. The doormat was crooked. A gap on the shelf where a vase had been.
She walked into the lounge. The vase was gone. Just dust on the sill.
Then the bedroom. His wardrobe was empty. Just a few old shirts left. Her drawers were shutbut she *knew*. Her hairbrush wasnt where shed left it.
She sat on the bed. Didnt cry. Just sat and thought, *Hes gone. And shes still here. In my home. With my keys.*
The next day, she went to them. To his mothers. A pebbledash semi on the outskirts.
His mother opened the door.
“Oh, Ellen,” she said, smiling. “Come in. Andrews home.”
“Im not here for Andrew,” Ellen said. “Im here for you.”
His mother blinked but let her in.
“Tea?” she asked, filling the kettle.
“No,” Ellen said. “Ive come for my keys.”
“What keys?” His mother didnt look at her.
“To *our* flat. You were there yesterday. Cleaning. Without my permission.”
“I didnt touch your flat,” his mother said. “I was helping my son. Hes upset. Stressed. And youre making it worse.”
“Im not,” Ellen said. “I asked him to protect our family. And he left.”
“You gave him a choice,” his mother said. “Me or you. What was he supposed to do?”
“I never gave a choice,” Ellen said. “I asked him to talk to you. Politely. Like family. But he stayed silent. Every time. And you know it.”
“I know he loves me,” his mother said. “And that you tried to come between us.”
“I didnt,” Ellen said. “I wanted him to be a husband, not a son. To stand up for his wife, not run to his mum every time we had a problem.”
“You *were* the problem,” his mother said. “With your temper. Your complaints. Your ‘dont touch my things.'”
“Because theyre *mine*,” Ellen said. “I had a life before him. A flat, a job, friends. I married him because I loved him. Not to be your maid.”
“Youre not a maid,” his mother said. “Youre my sons wife. And a wife is part of the family.”
“And family isnt just you and him,” Ellen said. “Its *us*. And if you cant respect that, youre not family. Youre a stranger.”
His mother paled.
“Youre mad,” she whispered.
“No,” Ellen said. “Im just finally awake. The keys, please.”
His mother went to the cupboard, pulled out a ring, and handed them over.
“I wont give him up,” she said.
“Hes not a thing to give,” Ellen said. “Hes a grown man. Let him decide where he belongs.”
A week later, a letter came. From a solicitor. About dividing assets. The flat was in his name, but shed
