“You Only Have Yourself to Blame, Mum”
Emma was frying burgers when the doorbell rang. She stepped out of the kitchen to answer it.
“Mum, it’s for me,” her daughter’s voice stopped her halfway. “I’ll get it.”
“Alright. I didn’t know—”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Go back to your frying,” her daughter snapped, glancing over her shoulder from the front door.
“Why ‘my’ frying? I bought the mince from Waitrose—”
“Mum, just shut the door.” Her daughter rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve said so straight away.” Emma returned to the kitchen, leaving the door slightly ajar. She turned off the hob, paused, then hung up her apron and walked out.
In the hallway, her daughter was slipping on her jacket. Beside her stood James, her boyfriend, gazing at her adoringly.
“Hello, James. Where are you off to? Stay for dinner—it’s ready.”
“Hello,” James smiled, glancing questioningly at the daughter.
“We’re in a hurry,” she said, not looking at her mother.
“Are you sure? I’ve already made plenty,” Emma pressed. James hesitated.
“No!” her daughter cut in sharply. “Let’s go.” She linked arms with James and pulled him toward the door. “Mum, can you lock up?”
Emma moved to close the door but left it slightly open, catching their voices in the stairwell.
“Why do you talk to her like that? Those burgers smell amazing—I wouldn’t say no.”
“We’ll grab something at Nando’s. I’m sick of her cooking,” her daughter muttered.
“How could you get sick of it? Your mum’s food is brilliant—I’d eat it every day,” James insisted.
Emma didn’t catch her daughter’s reply as their voices faded down the stairs. She shut the door properly and walked into the living room, where her husband sat in front of the telly.
“David, dinner’s ready before it gets cold.”
“Hm? Right.” He hauled himself off the sofa and brushed past her into the kitchen, sitting at the table.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” he asked flatly.
“Burgers, rice, and salad,” Emma said, lifting the pan lid.
“How many times do I have to say it? I don’t eat fried food,” he grumbled.
“I added water—they’re practically steamed.” Emma stood frozen by the hob, lid in hand.
“Fine then, but last time.”
“At our age, losing weight isn’t healthy,” Emma remarked, placing a plate in front of him.
“Our age? I’m fifty-seven. Prime of life for a man.” He speared a burger with his fork, taking a hefty bite.
“What’s got into everyone today? Sophie storms off, you throw a tantrum. Fine, I’ll stop cooking—see how you manage. Think takeaway’s better, do you?”
“Don’t, then. You could stand to lose a few pounds yourself. Soon you won’t fit through the front door.” He finished the first burger and stabbed the next.
“Oh, is that so? So now I’m fat? And here I was wondering why you’ve been preening—new jeans, that leather jacket, that stupid cap to hide your bald patch. Who’s it for? Not me, clearly. Oh, but I’m fat. Got someone to compare me to now, have you?”
“Let me eat in peace.” David scooped up rice but dropped his fork back on the plate. “Pass the ketchup.”
Emma slammed the bottle in front of him and stalked out without a word, leaving her own dinner untouched.
She shut herself in Sophie’s room, sinking onto the bed as tears welled up.
*Slaving away for them, and what thanks do I get? David’s acting like some lovesick teenager, and Sophie treats me like hired help. Just because I’m retired, they think they can walk all over me. I’d still be working if they hadn’t made me redundant. What do they know, these youngsters?*
*Up before dawn, even now, just to make breakfast. No time to rest all day. My own fault—spoiled them rotten, and now they’re riding me into the ground.* Tears streaked down her cheeks. She wiped them roughly with her palms.
She’d always thought they were a good family—not perfect, but solid. Sophie was in uni, doing well. David didn’t drink or smoke, brought in decent money. The house was cosy, meals were hearty. What more did he want?
She studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. *Alright, maybe I’ve put on a few pounds, but I’m not fat. Round cheeks hide the wrinkles. Always loved my food—and I cook well. Turns out, they couldn’t care less. When I worked, I styled my hair. Now it’s just pinned back. Easier that way. What, should I hoover in high heels? Still, could stand to slim down. And the roots need doing.* She sat back down, lost in thought.
Next morning, Emma didn’t rise early as usual. She lay still, pretending to sleep. *I’m retired—I’ve every right to lie in. Let them fend for themselves.*
The alarm blared. She stirred, turning toward the wall.
“You alright? Sick?” David’s voice held no concern.
“Mhm.” She buried her face in the duvet.
“Mum, you ill?” Sophie poked her head in.
“Yes, sort your own breakfast,” Emma mumbled.
Sophie huffed and left. Soon, the kettle whistled, the fridge door thudded, murmurs floated down the hall. Emma stayed buried until the house fell silent.
An hour later, she stretched luxuriously and padded to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs sat in the sink, crumbs littered the table. *I’m not their maid.* She showered, then called her old schoolmate.
“Em! Darling!” came the familiar, unchanged voice. “How’s retirement treating you?”
Emma said she missed her, was bored senseless at home, and hadn’t visited her parents’ graves in ages. Would it be an imposition to stay a few days?
“Don’t be daft! Come now?”
“Thought I’d catch the next train.”
“Oh! I’ll pop a quiche in, then.”
She packed a small bag, swept the crumbs aside, and left a note: *Gone to Linda’s. Back whenever.*
At the station, doubts crept in. *Let them manage without me. See how they like it.* But was this too drastic? *If there’s no ticket, I’ll go home.* The queue at the coach was already forming. She joined the end with a sigh.
Linda welcomed her warmly. Over quiche and tea, they talked nonstop.
“Alright, out with it—what’s happened?”
“Never could fool you,” Emma sighed and spilled everything.
“Good. Serves them right. Turn off your phone.”
“Won’t that be too much?”
“Not at all,” Linda said firmly. “Tomorrow, we hit the salon. Valentina works there now—remember her? Useless at maths? Now she’s booked solid. Then shopping. We’ll make you irresistible. Let David chew his fists.”
That night, Emma barely slept. *Are they worried? Or relieved?*
Valentina fussed over her, dyeing her hair, shaping her brows, then wielding the scissors like an artist. By the time the makeup was done, Emma hardly recognised herself—younger, bold, radiant.
“Look at you!” Linda crowed as they left. “Now for the fun part.”
Emma emerged from the shops in linen trousers, a soft blouse, and a tailored blazer. She glowed, despite the exhaustion.
Outside Linda’s, a silver-haired man with a dark moustache grinned.
“Evening, ladies.” His eyes lingered on Emma. “You haven’t aged a day.”
“Sorry, do I—?”
“Paul Jenkins! Honestly, Em!”
“*Paul*?” The scrawny boy from school was now broad-shouldered, distinguished.
Over wine, they reminisced. When Paul left, Linda nudged her.
“He’s still sweet on you.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“With that glow? He’d be daft not to.”
Three days later, Emma switched her phone on.
“Mum! Where *are* you? Dad’s in hospital—come home!” Sophie’s voice was frantic.
Her stomach lurched. Paul drove her to the station.
“Em, if you ever need anything—just ask.”
On the coach, Sophie confessed: David had been cheating. She’d seen him leaving a neighbour’s flat.
“When you left, he didn’t even come home. Then her husband returned unexpectedly. There was a fight. Dad’s got two broken ribs, but—Mum? He had a brain bleed too. The ambulance got there in time.”
Emma’s hands shook. *I shouldn’t have left.*
At home, Sophie gaped. “MShe watched David stir his tea absently the next morning, his bruised face softening when she placed fresh toast before him, and she knew—despite everything—this was where she belonged.
