Mum doesnt love us any more? Shes leaving because were in the way? Sam asked, hiccuping between sobs.
The father glanced sideways at Margaret, who was packing her things with such plaintive haste that even the walls seemed ready to weep. She froze, caught between the weight of conscience and sheer exhaustion.
It all began with a harmless joke from her husband. The night before, Margaret had declared she would spend International Womens Day on her own, away from the family. The house erupted in a clatter of protests. Andrew could not forbid it, but he blurted out every thought that bubbled up, then set the children on edge: fiveyearold Sam and sevenyearold Arthur.
Heard the news, kids? Our mum is up and leaving us. Weve worn her out, havent we? Andrew tossed out, his tone light as a Saturday morning, yet tinged with a hidden accusation.
The childrens faces went white. Arthur frowned, Sams eyes widened.
Shes going forever? the little one asked, bewildered.
I dont know. Not yet. Maybe shell get used to it and decide to go for good, Andrew shrugged.
To him it was all banter. To the kids it was a catastrophe. Sam threw a tantrum, and Emma, the mother, soothed him all evening. She hoped the husband had learned a lesson; the next day the same scene replayed.
Come on, Sam, dont cry. Dad loves you. Im not running away, just off to work, Andrew replied carelessly.
Emmas throat tightened. Only Sams tears held her back from exploding. She sat beside her youngest, brushed his cheek.
Sam, love, its not what you think. I just need one day alone, she began, echoing yesterdays words. Look, Dad spends every Sunday with Uncle Perry and his mates. Mum needs a break sometimes too.
Once, Emma could never imagine growing weary of the people she loved. She and Andrew had seemed the pictureperfect pair: cycling together, catching the latest film, chatting about the books theyd read. Their little ritual was a Sunday discovery a new café or a quirky bistro, tasting something unfamiliar.
Now Sunday belonged entirely to Andrew; the books were replaced by vaccination schedules and nursery fees. Their outings were limited to childrens fairs and quick trips for groceries.
When Arthur arrived, the household held together by a thread. Sometimes Andrew would watch the baby, other times one of the grandmothers. Emma managed to steal moments for herself. The birth of the second child changed everything. Only Emma could juggle two.
Emma, I love them both, her motherinlaw would say, justifying her demands. But understand, I can barely manage one. The two of them made such a ruckus last time! Remember the rocking horse by the TV? It survived seven kids, but these two broke it while trying to sit together.
The grandmothers help dwindled to occasional visits, more for moral support than actual assistance. She stopped taking the grandchildren, claiming shed already given enough of herself.
Andrew treated time with the kids like a side dish to his pint: occasional, whenever he felt like it. When he was tired he barricaded himself in the spare room and stayed there all evening.
Whats the problem? I sit quietly, Im not in your way, he would say when Emma complained. Its not me, its you. You cant relax. Youre always wiping, cleaning, polishing. Calm down, have a rest. Youre too tense.
It was easy for him to talk; he never lifted a finger. Emma knew that if she ever rested her hands, they would sprout moss.
Emotionally, she was burnt out. Over time she began shouting, snapping. The children irked her by announcing for the fifth time in two minutes that they didnt want tomatoes. Her husband annoyed her by coming home and slamming the door. Everything around her seemed to provoke a flareup, yet she held on.
Until Sams birthday arrived.
For three days Emma scrubbed and cooked. Sam wanted to invite his nursery friends, which meant also inviting their parents. Emma overhauled the flat: two cakes baked, salads prepared, meat marinated in advance. She plotted everything so she could finally get some sleep.
But the universe had other plans.
Sam woke first, stumbling into the kitchen, trying to rouse his mum.
Sleep! Emma barked. Or sit quietly until Im up. Let Mum get her rest!
Sam whined that he was bored and hungry.
Hold it, his mother snapped.
Emma was so drained she could barely rise. Sleep eluded her; Sams wailing only deepened the haze.
Soon Arthur stirred. Acting the responsible older brother, he grabbed Sams hand and led him to the kitchen. Emma exhaled, hoping a moment of peace might finally arrive, when the clang of dishes shattered the silence.
She leapt as if the children had smashed not just a plate but the last strand of her nerve. The boys scrambled, gathering shards. On the counter lay a box of cornflakes and a bottle of milk; a stool leaned against the cupboard. It seemed the children had tried to make breakfast themselves and miscalculated the effort.
I told you! Emma roared. How many times do I have to say it? Can you survive five minutes without me? If you never see your mother, maybe youll finally appreciate what I do!
She screamed for what felt like three endless minutes, words pouring out in a frantic, incoherent torrent. Sam pressed his forehead into his shoulders. Arthur crossed his arms, eyes downcast. Emma stopped only when the youngest burst into tears, rubbing his eyes with his fists.
Alright, alright, quiet now Mum will clean up, then well go for a walk and pop into the toy shop.
In that instant Emma was genuinely terrified. Yes, a plate had broken, but she reacted as if the whole house had collapsed. It was absurd.
The next morning Emma sought advice from her friend Lucy. Lucy, mother of three, still managed a semblance of sanity, so her opinion carried weight.
Of course! Youre carrying the world on your shoulders. Let me guess International Womens Day is looming, and youll be hosting your motherinlaw and your own mum again. Another marathon of cooking for two days.
Exactly. What else can I do? Emma sighed.
Wake up, love! International Womens Day wasnt invented for women to be slaves to the family. My brother gave me a day off in the countryside. Come with me; Ive rented a cosy cottage, theres plenty of room.
Emma thought it over and agreed. It sounded reasonable. She ordered the two novels shed been yearning to read, packed a basket of groceries, and told the family her plans had changed.
Her mother took it calmly: Right, have a proper rest. The motherinlaw was surprised but didnt object. Andrew, however
So youre running off from us? People spend the day with family, not ditch them.
Emma explained at length that it wasnt betrayal, just a need for a breath. Andrew didnt agree, but he didnt stop her.
Fine, go wherever you like, even to the moon, he muttered as a final jab. Ill see you when youre back.
Emma snapped back, Ill be soaring next time.
Later, Andrew started teasing the kids again, and that was the last straw for Emma. When Sam and Arthur finally fell asleep, she approached her husband.
Listen, cut the jokes. Because of you the kids think I dont love them. Did you see Sams eyes this morning?
Oh, come off it. Its nothing, just little things. Theyll forget by dawn. And whats wrong with you? You should be at home, not gallivanting about.
Emma sighed slowly. He waved it off, never hearing her. She was tired of the silence.
You know what, love? All your evenings are quiet because dads tired, and Sunday is your sanctuary. Ive been on the front line for seven years, no days off. Im not fleeing; I just need a moment to mend so I dont snap at the children. Its you, not them, I have to shout at, she said, eyes narrowed. Lets try this: Sunday is yours, fine. But Saturdays are mine. Spend at least one day a week with the kids. After all, theyre yours too.
He resisted, but eventually gave in; the alternative was each of them taking one child alone, and Emma could not handle two.
International Womens Day passed in an unusually quiet way. They had arrived at the cottage the night before, so Emma awoke not to childrens cries but to her own thoughts. She lingered in bed with a book, later laughing with Lucy over university anecdotes and plotting how to lure the other girls from their online cliques into a realworld hike.
By dusk, Margaret sat on the verandah, breathing the fresh air, watching ants haul the crust of bread shed left behind. Her mind was empty, yet bright, like a room that had finally been cleared of clutter and had its windows flung wide open. For the first time in seven years, no one tugged at her, no one called, no one demanded, no one criticised.
Lucy raised her glass and clinked it with Emmas.
Happy Womens Day, love. At last youre not just a mum, she smiled.
Emma returned the smile. Just for a day, she remembered what it felt like to be herself not mother, not wife, but a person with her own wishes and a right to a pause.
