**You’re to Blame, Mum**
Emma was frying beef patties when the doorbell rang. She stepped out of the kitchen to answer it.
*”Mum, that’s for me,”* her daughter interrupted halfway. *”I’ll get it.”*
*”Alright. I didn’t know—”*
*”Why are you just standing there? Go back to your frying,”* snapped the daughter, shooting her a withering glance as she reached the door.
*”Why ‘mine’? I bought the mince from Waitrose—”*
*”Mum, just close the door,”* the girl rolled her eyes.
*”You could’ve said so straight away.”* Emma retreated to the kitchen, shutting the door softly behind her. She turned off the hob, letting the pan sizzle faintly. After a pause, she untied her apron and walked out.
In the hallway, her daughter was slipping on her coat. Beside her stood Daniel, her boyfriend, gazing at her with adoration.
*”Hello, Daniel. Off somewhere? You could stay for dinner.”*
*”Hello,”* he smiled, then glanced uncertainly at the daughter.
*”We’re in a rush,”* the girl replied without looking at her mother.
*”Are you sure? Everything’s ready,”* Emma pressed. Daniel hesitated.
*”No!”* Her daughter cut in sharply. *”We’re leaving.”* She hooked her arm through Daniel’s and yanked open the door. *”Mum, shut it behind us?”*
Emma moved to close it but left it slightly ajar, straining to hear their conversation on the landing.
*”Why were you so rude? It smells amazing—I wouldn’t mind those patties.”*
*”Come on. We’ll grab something at the café. I’m sick of her cooking,”* the daughter muttered.
*”How? I love your mum’s food. Could eat it every day,”* Daniel said.
The rest was lost as their voices faded down the stairs. Emma shut the door and drifted into the living room. Her husband, James, was glued to the telly.
*”James, dinner’s ready. It’ll get cold.”*
*”Hmm? Right.”* He heaved himself off the sofa, brushing past her to the kitchen and slumping into his chair. *”What’ve we got?”* he demanded.
*”Rice, beef patties, salad,”* Emma answered, lifting the pan lid.
*”How many times do I have to say? I don’t eat fried food,”* he grumbled.
*”I added water—they’re practically steamed.”* She froze by the stove, lid in hand.
*”Fine. But last time.”*
*”At our age, crash diets aren’t healthy,”* she remarked, setting his plate down.
*”What ‘age’? I’m only fifty-seven. Prime of a man’s life.”* He speared a patty, taking a large bite.
*”What’s got into everyone today? Lily storms off, you’re being impossible. Maybe I should stop cooking. See how you like takeaways every night—think they’re tastier?”*
*”Suit yourself. You could stand to lose a few pounds too. Soon you won’t fit through the door.”* He polished off the patty and stabbed another.
*”Oh? So I’m fat now?”* Her voice trembled. *”I’ve been racking my brain—why the sudden vanity. New jeans, that leather jacket, the baseball cap to hide the balding spot. Who’s it for? Not me, clearly. Got someone to compare me to?”*
*”Let me eat in peace.”* James prodded the rice but dropped his fork. *”Pass the ketchup.”*
Emma wrenched the bottle from the fridge, slamming it before him before stalking out. Her own dinner sat untouched.
She locked herself in Lily’s room, sinking onto the bed as tears pricked her eyes.
*”Slaving away for them—for what? No gratitude. James primping like some lad, eyeing younger women. And Lily treats me like staff.”*
Her chest heaved. *”Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean they can walk over me. I’d still be working if they hadn’t ‘restructured.’ Experience means nothing to them now. But what do these kids know?”*
She swiped at her cheeks. *”Up before dawn, no rest all day. My own fault—spoilt them rotten. Now they’re riding me like a pack mule.”*
She’d always thought theirs was a good family. Not perfect, but decent. Lily at uni, doing well. James never drank, brought home a steady wage. A tidy house, home-cooked meals. What more did he want?
Standing before the wardrobe mirror, Emma scrutinized herself. *”Alright, I’ve put on weight, but I’m not huge. At least the rounder face hides wrinkles. Always loved my food—cook well too. Turns out they don’t care. Back when I worked, I styled my hair, wore makeup. Now it’s all ponytails for convenience. Can’t scrub floors in heels. Still… could lose a few pounds. And dye this grey out.”*
She sat heavily, lost in thought.
Morning came. For once, Emma didn’t rise at dawn. She feigned sleep as James’ alarm blared.
*”You ill?”* His tone held no concern.
*”Mhm.”* She burrowed deeper.
*”Mum, you okay?”* Lily peered in.
*”Yes. Help yourselves to breakfast.”* Her muffled reply.
Her daughter huffed and left. Soon, the kettle whistled, the fridge door thudded, murmurs drifting through the house. Emma stayed put, committed to the charade.
James entered reeking of pricey aftershave—*the one she’d bought him*—before both left. Silence. She threw off the duvet but dozed off, exhausted.
Waking an hour later, she stretched and padded to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs, crumbs everywhere. *”Not my job,”* she decided, showering instead before ringing her old schoolmate.
*”Emma!”* Sarah’s voice was bright as ever. *”Missed you! Bored of retiree life yet?”*
Emma admitted she was lonely, sick of home, overdue visiting her parents’ grave. Would Sarah mind hosting her?
*”Of course! When?”*
*”Today. Train in an hour.”*
*”Brilliant! I’ll bake a pie.”*
She packed a small bag, left a note (*”Gone to Sarah’s. Back whenever.”*), and headed out.
On the way, doubt gnawed at her. *”Let them cope without me. But is this too harsh?”*
At the station, she wavered. *”If there’s no ticket, I’ll go home.”* But there was. The queue for the coach snaked ahead. With a sigh, she joined it.
Sarah embraced her warmly. Over tea and warm pie, the words tumbled out.
*”Good. Let them sweat. Turn off your phone.”*
*”Isn’t that extreme?”*
*”Necessary,”* Sarah insisted. *”Tomorrow, salon. New look. Then shopping. We’ll make you irresistible—watch James grovel.”*
That night, Emma tossed. *”Are they even bothered?”*
At the salon, stylist Tracey—*”Remember her? Failed maths, now fully booked!”*—worked magic: cut, colour, brows, makeup. Emma hardly recognized the polished woman in the mirror.
*”Who knew you had this in you?”* Sarah grinned as they left. *”Now, clothes.”*
Emma protested but was steered into boutiques. She emerged in wide-leg trousers, a silky blouse, a cashmere cardigan—laden with bags (a dress, a jacket, shoes). For the first time in years, she felt *seen*.
Outside Sarah’s, a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair approached.
*”Look at you,”* he grinned. *”Still knockout gorgeous.”*
Emma blinked. *”Paul? Paul Harris?”* The lanky, spotty boy from school now filled his frame imposingly.
*”The one and only,”* he winked.
Over wine at Sarah’s, nostalgia flowed.
*”He’s still sweet on you,”* Sarah whispered when Paul stepped out.
*”Don’t be daft. That was decades ago.”*
*”You’re luminous. Anyone’d fall for you now.”*
*”Does he live here?”* Emma deflected.
*”No. Army career—retired colonel. Wounded abroad. Wife left during rehab. Took two years, but he walks again. Limps if overdone. Don’t dismiss him yet.”*
*”Sarah! I’m married.”*
That night, Emma resolved to return home. Sarah vetoed it.
*”A week, minimum. Paul’sThree days later, Emma switched her phone back on—just in time to hear Lily’s panicked voice: *”Mum, come home, Dad’s in hospital!”* and her heart clenched with fearful understanding.
