“Your mum stays, and you leave,” said James, unbuttoning his coat and hanging it on the hook in the hallway.
Emily froze, a plate in her hand, standing in the middle of the kitchen. The tap was still running, water trickling into the sink, but she barely noticed, trying to process what shed just heard.
“What did you say?” she asked without turning around.
“Exactly what I said. Ive made my decision. Mums staying with us, and you” James walked into the kitchen and sat at the table. “Youll find somewhere else to live.”
Emily slowly set the plate on the drying rack and turned off the tap. Her hands trembled.
“This is *my* flat, James. I bought it. I pay the mortgage.”
“*Our* flat. Were married.”
“Its in *my* name!” Emily turned to face him. “Have you completely lost your mind?”
James pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one right there in the kitchen, even though he knew how much she hated it.
“I havent. But Mum cant live alone anymore. Her blood pressures bad, her heart and shes eighty-two, for Gods sake.”
“And whats that got to do with me? She can stayno ones stopping herbut why should *I* be the one to move out?”
“Where else is she supposed to go? My old room? She needs space, her own things.”
Emily clenched her jaw, holding back a scream. For five years of marriage, Margaret had made her life miserableconstant nitpicking, criticisms, meddling. And now James wanted to kick her out of her own home.
“Your mum has a perfectly good three-bedroom flat in Kensington.”
“The lifts broken, and climbing four flights is too much for her. Here, its ground floor, close to the GP and shops.”
“So youve already decided? Without me?” Emily leaned against the counter. “James, were *married*. These things should be discussed together.”
“Theyre discussed when theres something to discuss,” he said, flicking ash into a saucer. “This is clear. My mother is old, ill. She needs care. Who else will look after her but her son?”
“And whos supposed to look after *me* but my husband?” Emily sat opposite him. “Do you even hear what youre saying? Youre throwing me out of my own home.”
“Im not *throwing* you out. Im asking you to stay somewhere else for a while. Until Mum well”
“Until she dies?” Emily finished. “Go on, say it.”
“Dont be crude.”
“What word would you prefer? Shes eighty-two, James. How longs she got? A year? Two? Five? Am I supposed to rent someplace and drain my savings?”
James shoved his chair back, the legs scraping against the lino.
“Thats *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 scoffed. Margaret didnt need helpshe wanted control. From the moment theyd met, her mother-in-law had despised her, doing everything to drive a wedge between them.
First, it was little thingsshowing up unannounced, rearranging the flat, criticising her cooking. Then came the open hostility.
“Your mother hates me,” Emily said. “And you know it.”
“She doesnt *hate* you. Shes just used to being the most important person in my life. Thats natural for a mother.”
“James, youre *forty*. When are you going to grow up?”
He stubbed out his cigarette and gave her a cold look.
“Ive grown up enough to care for my own mother. You, clearly, havent.”
“Im not against helping her! But not at the cost of our marriage! We can give her money, visit, take her to appointments. But living together”
“We *wont* be living together. Youre leaving.”
The kitchen door creaked open. Margaret stood there, tall and thin, her silver hair pinned back in a tight bun. A faint smile played on her lips.
“James, darling, I heard voices,” she said softly. “Youre not arguing, are you?”
“No, Mum. We were just discussing plans.”
Margarets gaze swept the kitchen, lingering on the ashtray.
“James, love, how many times must I tell yousmokings dreadful for you. Especially indoors.”
“Sorry, Mum. Wont happen again.”
Emily watched, stunned, as a grown man shrunk under his mothers scolding like a schoolboy.
“And you, dear,” Margaret turned to her, “look awfully pale. Not ill, are you?”
“No, Im fine,” Emily said flatly.
“Good. At your age, you must take care. Thirty-seven isnt twenty, you know.”
Emily gritted her teeth. Margaret never missed a chance to jab at her age, her childlessness, how she wasnt good enough for her son.
“Mum, why dont you rest?” James suggested. “You must be tired.”
“I suppose. James, show me where Ill be staying, wont you? The suitcase is rather heavy.”
“Of course, Mum.”
They left, their voices fading as they wandered the flat, deciding where Margarets things would go.
Shed already *brought* a suitcase. So this had been decided long before tonight. James had just sprung it on her.
Emily grabbed her phone and dialled her best friend.
“Sophie? Its me. Can I come over? Tonight. Ill explain later.”
She headed to the bedroom to pack. Margaret stood in the middle, surveying it critically.
“Well need to move the wardrobe,” she was saying. “And hang a mirror. These photos should go.”
Emily stared at their wedding pictures on the wall.
“Those are *ours*,” she said.
“I know, love,” Margaret smiled. “But its *my* room now. Id like to feel at home.”
“Where are we supposed to sleep?” Emily asked James.
“You said you were leaving,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.
Emily yanked a suitcase from the wardrobe, hands shaking with rage.
“James, do you *realise* what youre doing?”
“Im doing whats right.”
“And what about me? Where do I go?”
“Youve got friends. Family.”
“Ive got a *husband*. At least, I *did*.”
Margaret sighed dramatically, sinking onto the bed.
“Oh, my back. James, dear, fetch me a cushion, would you?”
“Right away, Mum.”
Emily zipped the suitcase and headed for the door. James caught up in the hallway.
“Em, wait. Its not forever.”
“How long, then?”
“I dont know. Until Mums better.”
“Your mum isnt *ill*, James. Shes as fit as a fiddle. She just enjoys pulling your strings.”
“Dont talk about her like that.”
“How *should* I talk? Shes breaking us up! Cant you see that?”
“Mum just wants whats best.”
“For *who*? You? Or *her*?”
James looked away. Emily knew it was pointless.
“Fine. Call me when youve decided who matters moreyour mother or your wife.”
She grabbed her coat. At the door, she turned.
“If I walk out now, Im not coming back. Think carefully.”
“Em, dont be dramatic”
“This isnt drama. Its a choice.”
The door slammed.
In the car, Emily sat gripping the wheel, trying to steady her breathing. Her phone buzzed. A text from James:
*Dont be angry. Itll work out.*
She deleted it and started the engine.
At Sophies, she talked late into the night.
“Hes *lost it*!” Sophie fumed. “Kicking you out for Mummy?”
“*Asking* me to leave temporarily,” Emily corrected weakly.
“Whats the difference? Em, hes humiliating you. Ignoring your feelings, your *rights*.”
“Maybe Im wrong? Maybe I should just endure it?”
“Endure *what*? Being pushed out of your own home? Wake *up*! That woman isnt going anywhere. Shes won.”
Sophie was right. Margaret had always wanted her son back. Now she had him.
“What do I do?”
“Fight. Or accept it and live like a guest in your own life.”
“What if he chooses her?”
“Then he never really loved you.”
Emily lay on Sophies sofa, listening to the rain outside. Strange house, strange sounds. And somewhere, in *her* flat, Margaret was settling into *her
