“Mum stays, you go,” said Tom, unbuttoning his coat and hanging it on the hook in the hallway.
Emily froze with a plate in her hands, mid-kitchen. The tap gushed in the sink as she stood there, wondering if shed heard him right.
“Sorry, what?” she asked, not turning around.
“What I said. Ive made my decision. Mums moving in with us, and you… well, youll find somewhere else.” Tom walked into the kitchen and slumped into a chair.
Emily slowly set the plate on the drying rack and turned off the tap. Her hands shook.
“This is *my* flat, Tom. I bought it. I pay the mortgage.”
“*Our* flat. Were married.”
“Which is in *my* name!” Emily turned to face him. “Have you lost your mind?”
Tom pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one right therejust to spite her, she was sureknowing full well she hated it.
“Not at all. Mum just cant live alone anymore. Her blood pressure, her heart, and lets face itshes eighty-two.”
“And whats that got to do with me? Fine, let her stay. But why do *I* have to move out?”
“Where else is she supposed to go? My study? Shes used to space, to her own things.”
Emily bit back a scream. Five years of marriage, and her mother-in-law had turned her life into a never-ending soap operaconstant nitpicking, unsolicited advice, meddling. And now Tom wanted to kick her out of her own home.
“Your mum has a perfectly good three-bed in Kensington.”
“The lifts broken. Four flights up at her age? Here, its ground floorchemist next door, Tesco down the road.”
“So, youve decided without me? Tom, were *married*. These things get discussed.”
“Discussed when theres something *to* discuss,” he said, tapping ash into a saucer. “But this is obvious. Mums old, frail. Needs looking after. Who else will do it?”
“And who looks after *me*? Youre chucking me out of my own home!”
“Im not chucking you out. Just asking you to stay elsewhere for a bit. Until Mum… well…”
“Kicks the bucket? Say it.”
“Emily, dont be crass.”
“What else should I be? Shes eighty-two. A year? Two? Five? And Im supposed to rent some hovel, burn through *my* savings?”
Tom stood abruptly, the chair screeching against the lino.
“Shes my *mother*. The woman who raised me alone after Dad died!”
“And that gives her the right to run *our* marriage?”
“Shes not running anything. She just needs help.”
Emily laughed bitterly. Margaret didnt *need* helpshe needed total control over her son. From day one, shed hated Emily, done everything to undermine them. First, it was “just popping round” unannounced, rearranging the cupboards, criticising her cooking. Then came the outright battles.
“Your mum *loathes* me,” Emily said. “You know she does.”
“She doesnt loathe you. Shes just… used to being the priority. Thats what mums do.”
“Tom, youre *forty*. When do you grow up?”
He stubbed out the cigarette and gave her a cold look.
“Ive grown up enough to care for my mother. Seems you havent.”
“Its not about caring! But not at the cost of our marriage! We can help hermoney, visits, doctors appointments. But living *with* her”
“We wont be living together. Youre leaving.”
Just then, the kitchen door creaked open. There stood Margarettall, thin, silver hair in a tight bun, wearing the faintest smirk.
“Tommy, I heard shouting,” she said sweetly. “Nothing serious, I hope?”
“No, Mum. Just… talking plans.”
Margarets gaze swept the kitchen, lingering on the ashtray.
“Tommy, love, how many times must I say? Smokings foul. Especially indoors.”
“Sorry, Mum. Wont happen again.”
Emily gaped. A grown man, reduced to a scolded schoolboy.
“And you, dear,” Margaret turned to her, “you look peaky. Coming down with something?”
“Im fine.”
“Good. At your age, you must mind your health. Thirty-seven isnt twenty.”
Emily clenched her teeth. Margaret *loved* reminding her she was childless, ageing, unworthy.
“Mum, why not rest?” Tom suggested. “Long journey.”
“Oh, perhaps. Tommy, show me where Ill be staying? My case is *so* heavy.”
“Of course, Mum.”
They left Emily alone. She heard them padding around *her* flat, debating furniture, layouts. Margaret had *already packed*. This was premeditated. Tom had just sprung it on her.
Emily grabbed her phone.
“Sarah? Its me. Can I crash at yours? Tonight? Ill explain later.”
She marched to the bedroom*their* bedroomto pack. Margaret stood in the middle, surveying like a general.
“That wardrobe needs shifting,” she said. “And a mirror here. Oh, and these photosgone.”
Emily stared at their wedding pictures on the wall.
“Those are *ours*.”
“I know, dear,” Margaret smiled. “But its *my* room now. Must feel like home.”
“And where do *we* sleep?” Emily asked Tom.
“You said you were leaving,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
She yanked a suitcase from the wardrobe, hands shaking with rage.
“Tom, do you *hear* yourself?”
“Im doing whats right.”
“And what about me? Where do *I* go?”
“Youve got friends. Family.”
“Ive got a *husband*. Or at least, I *did*.”
Margaret sighed dramatically, sinking onto the bed.
“Oh, my back. Tommy, fetch me a cushion, would you?”
“Of course, Mum.”
Emily zipped the suitcase and headed out. Tom followed her to the hall.
“Em, wait. Its not forever.”
“How longs *not forever*?”
“Dunno. Till Mums better.”
“Your mums *fine*, Tom. She just *owns* you.”
“Dont talk about her like that.”
“How *should* I? Shes breaking us up!”
“Mum wants whats best.”
“For *who*? You? Or *her*?”
Tom looked away. Pointless.
“Fine. Call me when you decide who matters moreyour mum or your wife.”
She grabbed her coat. At the door, she turned.
“Tomif I walk out now, Im not coming back.”
“Em, dont be dramatic”
“Its not drama. Its *choice*.”
The door slammed. In the car, her phone buzzed.
**Tom:** Dont be mad. Itll work out.
She deleted it and started the engine.
At Sarahs, she talked till midnight.
“Hes *bonkers*!” Sarah ranted. “Kicking you out for *mummy*?”
“Not *kicking*. *Asking* me to leave.”
“Whats the *difference*? Em, hes humiliating you!”
“Maybe I *should* put up with it?”
“Put up with *what*? Being *evicted*? Wake up! That womans *never* leaving!”
Sarah was right. Margaret had won.
“What do I do?”
“Fight. Or roll over.”
“What if he picks *her*?”
“Then he never loved you.”
Emily lay awake on Sarahs sofa, rain tapping the window. A strangers flat, strange noises. And somewhere, in *her* bed, Margaret was settling in.
Morning brought Toms call.
“You okay? Whered you sleep?”
“Sarahs. Hows *Mum*?”
“Fine. Couldnt find her pills, though. Wheres the first-aid kit?”
“Bathroom, above the washer.”
“Cheers. Em… maybe come round tonight? Mum wants to *talk*.”
“About?”
“Compromise. Sorting things.”
Emily laughed.
“Compromise? Shes in *our bed*. Whats to sort?”
“You could… sleep on the sofa?”
“The *sofa*? In *my* flat?”
“Just temporarily!”
“No. And Im not coming.”
Silence.
“Then whats *your* solution?”
“I gave it yesterday. *Mum* goes home.”
“Cant.”
“Then were done.”
She hung up. Sarah leaned in the doorway, coffee in hand.