A Cold Wind Through the Lace Curtains
*”—I gave you more than anyone, so naturally I should get more help in return. Or have you forgotten about the flat?”*
Her mother’s voice crackled through the phone, sharp as a butcher’s knife. Lily wedged the receiver between her shoulder and ear, one hand steadying the pot, the other stirring the porridge.
*— Mum, we already agreed. Jamie and I are visiting his parents this Saturday—* she kept her voice light, though her pulse thrummed like a trapped bird. *—They need help in the garden. There’s loads to do.*
*— And what about me, then? Am I just supposed to manage on my own?* Ingrid’s laugh was bitter. *—The movers bailed again. Boxes need shifting. Be here by morning and we’ll have it sorted by noon. Then you can toddle off to your precious garden.*
Lily sank into a chair, fingers pressing into the wood. These conversations never changed. Ingrid never asked. She demanded. And her reasons were ironclad, heavy, laced with duty. Or debt.
*— We already promised them, Mum. They hardly see us as it is—* she repeated, knowing it was pointless.
*— Oh, is that it?* Ingrid’s voice rose. *—After everything I’ve done for my daughter, she still looks the other way?*
Lily shut her eyes. Here it comes.
*— Remember your wedding? Who gave you the money for the flat? His parents? Please, they can barely afford to fix their own leaky roof. Without me, you’d still be hopping between rentals.*
Jamie had heard. Not every word, but enough. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her. The weight of his gaze prickled her skin. She ended the call abruptly.
*— You heard?*
*— Enough.* His voice was flat. *—Tell her not to call again. Does she think she owns us?*
Lily opened her mouth, but the words turned to ash. He was right. Every time Ingrid *reminded* them of her *help*, it made her skin crawl. Like she didn’t live in her own home, but in some furnished let. With her mother as the landlord.
Jamie stalked to the balcony, fumbling for his cigarettes. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the teacups.
She sat, hands pressed to her temples. At first, she’d thought her mother was just worried—wanted her to have a better life. But the honey had curdled.
At the wedding, Ingrid had been radiant. A scarlet dress, bold as a warning. Lavish spread, live band, two MCs—all thanks to her.
When the gifts were presented, she’d stood, raised an envelope high, and announced—loudly—the sum inside. For *all* to hear, including Jamie’s parents, Margaret and Arthur, who later handed over their own envelope, quietly, with no numbers, just warm hands and softer words.
*— We’re not rich, but it’s given with love,* Arthur had murmured. *—Be happy. Listen to each other.*
Ingrid had been too busy charming a distant cousin to hear. Numbers mattered more.
Lily traced the edge of the kettle, the microwave, the matching china. Everything in this flat had started with that envelope. The paint, the furniture, the telly.
She’d thought it was a gift. Now she knew: it was an *investment*. And with every demand, Ingrid cashed it in, bit by bit.
A week passed. Then another. They still spoke, but stiffly, only when Ingrid called. Lily’s fingers hovered over the phone, but she always pulled back. Not anger—just dread.
Jamie refused to see her now.
*— You go, if you want. I won’t sit there while she tallies up what I ‘owe.’ My family doesn’t deal in loans.*
It stung. But was he wrong?
She knew she couldn’t dodge it forever. One evening, she tried.
*— Mum, we *are* grateful. But gratitude isn’t a contract.*
Ingrid’s eyebrows shot up, as if Lily had spoken gibberish.
*— Don’t be absurd. What about give and take? Or do you think I raised you for nothing?*
Something in Lily’s chest tore open. She’d known it, but hearing it—
Another memory surfaced. Flat-hunting. Endless nights on Rightmove, Zoopla, Gumtree. Jamie measuring distances to Tube stops, comparing layouts. They’d found a tidy one-bed in Croydon—small, but clean, with new floors. Not grand, but *theirs*.
Ingrid had scoffed.
*— You’ll be cramped! What about when children come? Let me top it up for a second bedroom. You’ll thank me later.*
*— We’re fine,* Jamie had cut in. *We’ll manage.*
Back then, Lily had thought him overly suspicious.
*— Jamie, she’s not charging interest,* she’d laughed. *It’s not a bank.*
Ingrid had sniffed but relented.
*— Fine. Do as you like.*
Now, she was grateful for his stubbornness. Otherwise, their debt would’ve doubled.
Lately, even Margaret and Arthur had grown distant. Margaret spoke less, her smiles thinner. Arthur’s jokes carried a sting.
*— Heard the flat was all down to your mum, eh?* he’d remarked over tea. *—Lucky girl. Not like us, scraping by.*
It took Lily weeks to piece it together. At Jamie’s birthday, Ingrid had whispered to a cousin—just loud enough:
*— I *practically* bought that flat for them. His parents? Penniless. But I won’t have my daughter suffer.*
Word got back. Arthur and Margaret had quietly covered a quarter of the cost—without fanfare, without reminders. Now *they* felt lesser.
And Lily? She burned with shame for words she hadn’t even said.
That night, she sat across from Jamie as he scrolled news on his phone. It took minutes to find her voice.
*— I’m… stuck in the middle. But I’m not blind. I see it.*
Jamie set the phone down.
*— I won’t cut her off, but—* she hesitated. *—Her ‘help’ costs too much. I won’t live in debt forever.*
*— It’s not debt. It’s war. And it’s chipping away at us. Brick by brick.*
She nodded. He understood. He’d given her permission to stop.
*— No more deals dressed up as care,* she said softly. *—If she wants to talk, fine. But no more guilt. Even if I have to… get sharp.*
She wasn’t alone. That steadied her.
But Ingrid didn’t relent.
*— Lily, love. Sorry to call late. Aunt Sylvia’s train gets in at three AM. You’ll fetch her? You know how dodgy cabs are here at that hour.*
Not a request. An order. Lily braced herself.
*— We can’t. Jamie’s up early. If you’d told us sooner—*
*— Oh, *of course*—* Ingrid sniffed. *—His parents snap their fingers, and you run. But me? I must book an appointment?*
The sigh was theatrical, as if Lily had stranded Aunt Sylvia in the moors.
*— Fine. Suit yourselves.* The words dripped hurt. *—Just don’t come crying when *you* need help. After all I’ve poured into you—*
Lily’s jaw clenched. She’d braced for this, but it still winded her.
*— You *have* given. Thanks. But I’m not your property. And neither is Jamie.*
Silence. Then—
*— Crystal clear,* Ingrid snapped.
The line went dead.
A week of quiet. Then Lily ran into Claire, a mutual friend.
*— Oh, your mum’s been *vicious*!* Claire giggled. *—Told Natalie Jamie only married you for the flat. Called him a gold-digger!*
Lily froze.
*— What?*
*— Well, you know her. Loose lips. But—* Claire faltered, catching Lily’s expression. *—Maybe keep this from Jamie. Yeah?*
Lily’s mind raced. Did he know? Would Ingrid ever stop?
They saw the solicitor the next week. Drew up papers—a quarter of the flat now legally Jamie’s, matching his parents’ contribution. Fair.
Legally, little changed. But to Lily, it was a declaration.
Later, she stared at her phone. To text or not? She typed.
*— We’re square now. Your help wasn’t a loan. And his parents helped too. No more talk of money. To anyone.*
Ingrid didn’t reply. She ignored Lily outright. At first, the silence ached. Then—relief. No moreThree months later, as Jamie’s father chuckled over a burnt sausage on the grill and his mother hummed off-key to the radio, Lily realized the price of peace had been worth every penny.
