“Do you really think I’m going to cook for your mum every day?” the wife exclaimed with exasperation.
“And how long will this continue?” Emily slammed the frying pan onto the stove. “Do you think I signed up to be your mom’s maid? Not a single day off in two months!” She gripped the wooden spatula tighter, her knuckles whitening with tension. Her voice carried a long-standing grievance.
James stood in the kitchen doorway, hesitating to step in. His wife was at the stove where burgers, his mother’s favorite dish, sizzled in the pan. The smell of fried meat and onions was stifling, and perhaps, so was the weight of the conversation ahead.
“Emily, why are you so upset?” he tried to speak gently, soothingly. “Mum’s just used to home-cooked meals. She can’t have ready meals, you know that…”
“I know!” Emily clattered the spatula onto the countertop. “I know everything! I know about her blood pressure, her diet, and her eating schedule. But why do I have to spin like a hamster on a wheel here every evening? I have my own job!”
Outside, the October day was slowly fading. Shadows from the old apple tree outside the kitchen window danced on the walls like silent witnesses to their argument. James glanced at his watch – his mum would be back from her walk soon.
“Maybe we should hire some help?” he suggested hesitantly, aware that his wife didn’t like outsiders in the house.
Emily gave a bitter smile, “Of course! And where’s the money going to come from? You know how much we spend on mum’s medication.”
She turned back to the stove, hiding tears that threatened to spill. Three months ago, when Mary had moved in after a minor stroke, Emily had been the one to insist on it. But she hadn’t realized how much their life would change.
The front door clicked shut in the hallway. Light footsteps – Mary was back from her evening stroll. Emily quickly wiped her eyes with a kitchen towel and began plating the burgers. James still stood in the doorway, unsure of what to say or do.
A heavy silence filled the room, broken only by the clatter of dishes and the hissing of the cooling pan.
“How was your walk, Mum?” James hurried to the hallway, seizing the chance to escape the difficult conversation with his wife. Lately, he’d found himself dodging conflicts, hiding behind work, late returns, and endless “urgent” tasks.
Mary stood at the mirror in the hallway, slowly unwrapping a woolen scarf – a gift from her late husband. Her fingers, once deft from years of sewing, now struggled with a simple knot. This traitorous tremor had appeared after her stroke, growing more evident by the day.
“The walk was nice, Jamie,” she attempted a smile, but it emerged strained. “They were raking leaves in the park. Remember how you loved jumping in them as a kid? I always warned you, ‘Stop it, you’ll catch a chill!’ But you just laughed…”
She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. The pallor of her face and sweat on her forehead didn’t escape her son’s observant eyes.
“I think my blood pressure’s acting up,” Mary confessed. “I guess I overdid it a bit today.”
“I’ll grab your pills,” Emily’s voice called from the kitchen. No matter how upset she was, she took Mary’s health seriously. Years working at the clinic had left their mark, seeing daily the toll of neglected illnesses.
“Don’t worry yourself, dear,” Mary sank heavily onto the bench, pulling a blister pack of pills from her cardigan pocket. “I carry these everywhere now, like a scout. Here are my helpers…”
Her gaze landed on an old photo on the wall – her with her husband on their wedding day. How long ago that was… She’d never imagined becoming a burden to her own son in her old age.
James dashed to the kitchen for a glass of water, nearly knocking over a floor vase in his haste. Passing by his wife, he attempted to catch her eye, but Emily deliberately turned back to the stove, where the burgers still sizzled. The smell made her nauseous – she hadn’t eaten all day, rushing between work, shops, and cooking.
“What’s for dinner?” Mary sniffed as she entered the kitchen. “Burgers again? Emily, you don’t have to go all out. I’d have been fine with some soup…”
“It’s fine, mum,” Emily stabbed a fork into a burger with such force it scraped the pan’s bottom defensively. “You love them. I remember.”
Something in her voice made Mary flinch and pause at the kitchen’s threshold. In twenty years of her son’s marriage, she had learned to detect even the subtlest tones of tension in her daughter-in-law’s voice. Now, they were taut as a drawn string.
The elderly woman slowly made her way to the table, leaning on her son’s arm. She sat, smoothing a napkin over her knees – a habit ingrained from years of teaching. James fussily placed a plate, a glass of water before her, checking her chair’s comfort.
“You know…” Emily began but stopped, noticing how pale her mother-in-law was. Words she held back pounded in her temples. “Let’s just have dinner.”
An oppressive silence settled over the table. The only sounds were the clatter of cutlery against plates and the steady ticking of the antique wall clock – a family heirloom from James’s grandmother. Its mechanical tick counted away the seconds of this unbearable silence. Mary barely touched her food, glancing between her son and daughter-in-law.
Over the past month, she’d frequently caught such glances, heard snatches of conversations, noticed the shift in household atmosphere whenever she entered a room.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to move,” a bitter thought flitted through her mind. But aloud, she simply praised the burgers, trying to lighten the mood: “They’re delicious, Emily. Just like my mum used to make…”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Emily suddenly said softly, putting down her fork. “I just can’t.”
The clock’s ticking became deafening. Mary froze with a spoon halfway to her mouth, and James paled, sensing what he’d been dreading was about to happen.
“Every day the same,” Emily’s voice grew firmer with each word. “I’m up at six, at work by eight. Lunch break for pharmacy runs, after work it’s shopping, cooking, cleaning… When do I live? When do I rest?”
“Dear…” Mary began.
“I’m not your daughter!” Emily stood abruptly, her chair clattering back against the wall. “You have a son; let him do the cooking. I’m exhausted! Do you understand? Ex-hausted!”
James flinched: “Emily, come on, what are you saying…”
“What am I saying?” she was almost shouting now. “I’m telling the truth! You vanish into work, while I’m supposed to split myself between the hospital and home? Your mum is your responsibility!”
Mary slowly set down her spoon. Her hands shook more than usual: “Of course, I’m just a burden…” She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the napkin. “Emily, dear, I do understand. Do you think I don’t see how tired you are? How angry? I pray every evening for the strength to take care of myself…”
“Mum, stop it,” James tried to hug his mother, but she gently moved away.
“No, let me finish, dear,” Mary straightened her shoulders, like she once did before a rowdy class. “I worked forty years in a school. Do you know what I learned most? To listen. And Emily, I hear you crying in the bathroom. I see your hands shaking from fatigue in the evenings…”
Emily stood frozen by the stove, clutching the countertop with whitened fingers. Frustrated tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I was young once too,” Mary continued. “I dreamed of my own life. Then my mother-in-law became bedridden… I cared for her for ten years. Each day was a blur – work, cooking, injections, procedures. My husband was at work, my son was young… I thought I was going mad.”
“Mum, what are you saying?” James mumbled in confusion, looking back and forth between his mother and wife.
“I’m saying, son, that you’re wrong.” Mary rose from the table. “Very wrong. You can’t put everything on Emily. Tomorrow I’ll call social services about a caregiver…”
“How much will that cost?” Emily asked dully, not turning around.
“I’ll give my pension. And we can rent out my apartment – it’ll help.”
James looked at the two most important women in his life, feeling something shift inside him. He’d been hiding behind work for years, pretending nothing was wrong…
“No,” he stood, squaring his shoulders. “No caregivers. We’re not renting the flat.”
“But how…?” Mary began.
“I’ll talk to my boss tomorrow about working from home three days a week,” James said firmly. “We’ll take turns cooking. Mum, can you teach me your famous burger recipe?”
Mary blinked in surprise: “Of course, dear… Do you think you can manage?”
“Believe it or not, men can cook too,” for the first time that evening, a hint of a smile touched Emily’s voice. “Just be careful, your son likes to experiment. Remember his curry soup?”
“Well, it was original!” James smiled, feeling the tension slowly ease.
“And I can handle the cleaning,” Mary unexpectedly offered. “Vacuuming might be tough, but I can dust and tidy up. And I can iron clothes – I did it all my life…”
“Mum,” Emily interrupted, finally turning to the table. “You don’t have to…”
“But I want to!” A familiar teacher’s fire glinted in Mary’s eyes. “Do you think it’s easy sitting idle all day? Just watching TV or staring out the window. This way, I’ll be useful at least.”
She suddenly sniffled, covering her mouth with her hand: “Forgive me, kids… I saw how hard it was for you, and I stayed silent. I was afraid to speak up.”
“And forgive me,” Emily unexpectedly knelt next to Mary’s chair, burying her face in her knees, just as she had done with her own mum as a child. “I said too much… I was just angry.”
Mary stroked Emily’s hair, mingling her own tears: “Then we’ll decide it this way. James cooks on Tuesdays and Thursdays…”
“And every other Saturday!” her son chimed in.
“And every other Saturday,” Mary nodded. “And I’ll tackle the cleaning. And one more thing, my dear,” she gently lifted Emily’s face by the chin, “don’t keep everything to yourself. Tell us when it’s hard. We’re family.”
The clock ticked on the wall, uneaten burgers cooled on the table, and outside, the final rays of October sun slowly faded. For the first time in months, the house felt truly warm.
