When Emily got married, she was certain it was a love to last a lifetime. She adored her husband, Oliver, and poured every ounce of effort into being the perfect wife—the kind he could always rely on, the one who would never let him down.
Emily was impossible not to love. Warm, open-hearted, with a radiant smile, she was always ready to lend a hand. Even her mother-in-law, Margaret Hensley, received endless help without complaint. A single phone call—a complaint about back pain or exhaustion—and Emily would rush over to clean, cook, or dash to the shops for groceries.
“You’re a blessing, my dear,” Margaret would sigh. “My son’s no help, but then, what do you expect from men? I always wanted a daughter, and fate gave me you.”
The praise made Emily glow, spurring her to try even harder. And truth be told, Margaret wasn’t wrong. Oliver never lifted a finger—not at home, not for his mother.
But it wasn’t just laziness. Oliver insisted housework wasn’t his domain. Emily didn’t mind; she loved making their home cosy. The real problem? He did nothing yet found fault in everything. Floors not spotless, soup too bland.
With time, his nitpicking sharpened. He accused her of overspending, though she never asked him for money—she earned her own.
“How much does that manicure cost?” he sneered.
“Fifty pounds,” she murmured, as if apologising.
“Fifty quid every month!” he exploded. “We could be saving for a car!”
“But you spend on your gym membership?” she ventured.
“That’s different! The gym is health—strength! Your nails are a waste!”
The complaints snowballed. Then, he resented her monthly coffee dates with friends—just once a month, yet it irked him.
“Why do you need to gad about without your husband?” he grumbled. “Stay home!”
Emily was gentle, conflict-averse, but even saints have limits. Their daily quarrels drained all understanding. After three years, she filed for divorce. Oliver fought—not for love, but for control. Emily couldn’t endure it anymore.
When he finally moved out, Margaret called at once.
“Emily, how could you?” she wept. “Why rush to divorce?”
Emily sighed. Explaining was the last thing she wanted, but she relented.
“It wasn’t rushed, Margaret. It built over years. I tried, but Oliver refused compromise. The constant criticism… I’m exhausted.”
“But you were such a beautiful couple!” Margaret wailed. “And I adore you! What will I do without you?”
Emily needed support, yet Margaret made it about herself, as always.
“You won’t be without me,” Emily said softly. “We can still talk. Divorcing Oliver doesn’t mean abandoning you. Call if you need help.”
“Oh, you’re an angel!” Margaret cried. “So we’re not saying goodbye?”
“Of course not.”
The divorce drained her. Oliver, convinced of his own perfection, couldn’t bear being left. But eventually, the storm passed. Emily realised she felt no regret—Oliver had smothered all love she once had. How had she ever thought him her dream man?
She started anew, blocking Oliver everywhere. He never reached out—but Margaret clung tight.
A week later, her call came.
“Emily, darling! How are you?”
“I’m fine,” Emily replied. “And you?”
The question was politeness, but Margaret pounced.
“Oh, dreadful! My blood pressure’s wild, and I can barely walk. I asked Oliver to fetch my pills—he refused! How will I manage?”
Emily saw the bait. Kind to a fault, she couldn’t ignore it.
“I’ll bring them, Margaret. Text me the list—I’ll be there in an hour.”
“My saviour! I knew I could count on you!”
Emily postponed her plans, bought the medicine, and spent two hours listening to complaints over tea.
But her hope for space faded fast. Margaret’s demands multiplied: groceries, cleaning, errands. Once, she asked for a lift to the shopping centre—and Emily snapped.
“Why can’t Oliver help?”
Margaret mumbled excuses. Guilt gnawed at Emily—poor woman, she thought.
Soon, Emily saw Margaret more than her own mother. Calls came at all hours—urgent, unrelenting. If Emily hesitated, Margaret’s pitiful sighs wore her down, forcing her to cancel plans.
After all, wasn’t she responsible for those she’d indulged? Emily had offered help freely—but never imagined such exploitation.
It might have gone on forever—had Margaret not slipped up.
One day, another call:
“Emily, my sister’s visiting. Could you drive us to the countryside tomorrow?”
“Not too early,” Emily said wearily.
“Oh, but we hoped for nine?”
“Fine,” Emily conceded, mourning her weekend.
“Bless you! What would I do without you?”
As Emily moved to hang up, Margaret’s sister’s voice crackled through—the call still connected.
“She agreed?”
“Of course!” Margaret scoffed. “Where else would she go?”
“But how?” her sister marvelled. “Divorced your son, yet she still runs to you!”
“Because she’s soft,” Margaret hissed. “Eager to please. Frankly, I’m glad they split—Oliver needs a sharper woman. This one? Let her keep helping me. Better her than burdening him—he’s got a new life to build. Who’d want her anyway?”
Emily’s breath caught, fury scorching her chest. All her kindness—spat on.
The next morning, she slept in, ignoring Margaret’s dozen calls. Finally, she answered, voice sickly sweet.
“Sorry, overslept!”
“But we agreed on nine!”
“Leaving now—meet me in fifteen!”
“We’ve been ready for ages,” Margaret grumbled.
Emily smirked, sipping her coffee. Fifteen minutes later, the phone rang again.
“Emily, where are you?”
“Outside! Can’t you see me?”
“We don’t see you!”
“How odd—I don’t see you either,” she drawled. “Wait—wrong building! Walk over, I’ll wait.”
When the calls persisted, Emily tired of games. She texted Margaret, confessing she’d heard everything, then blocked her.
As she drained her coffee, a weight lifted. She should’ve cut them both loose sooner. Now, she was free—and something better surely lay ahead.
