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 cooking,” her daughter snapped, glaring over her shoulder from the front door.
“Why *my* cooking? I bought the mince from Waitrose—”
“Mum, just shut the door.” Her daughter rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve said so sooner.” Emma retreated to the kitchen, letting the door swing halfway shut behind her. She turned off the hob, lingered by the stove for a moment, then untied her apron and walked back out.
In the hallway, her daughter was zipping up her jacket. Next to her stood James, her boyfriend, gazing at her with lovestruck eyes.
“Hello, James. Where are you two off to? Stay for dinner.”
“Hiya,” James smiled, glancing uncertainly at her daughter.
“We’re in a rush,” her daughter cut in, avoiding Emma’s eyes.
“Are you sure? It’s all ready,” Emma pressed. James hesitated.
“No!” her daughter snapped. “We’re leaving.” She looped her arm through James’ and yanked the door open. “Mum, you’ll lock up?”
Emma moved toward the door but left it slightly ajar, catching their voices on the landing.
“Why d’you talk to her like that? Smells amazing—I wouldn’t say no to your mum’s burgers.”
“Let’s just go. We’ll grab something at Nando’s. Sick of her cooking,” her daughter muttered.
“Seriously? I’d eat your mum’s burgers every day if I could,” James laughed.
Whatever her daughter said next, Emma didn’t hear. Their voices faded down the stairs. She shut the door properly this time and drifted into the living room. Her husband, Robert, was glued to the telly.
“Robert, dinner’s ready while it’s hot.”
“Eh? Right, then.” He heaved himself off the sofa, brushing past her into the kitchen, and plonked himself at the table. “What’s on?” he demanded.
“Burgers, rice, and salad,” Emma replied, lifting the pan lid.
“How many times do I have to say? I don’t eat greasy 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, dieting’s daft,” Emma remarked, sliding a plate of rice and a burger in front of him.
“*Our* age? I’m fifty-seven. Prime of life for a bloke.” He speared the burger, took a massive bite.
“What’s got into everyone today? Lily stormed off, you’re being fussy—maybe I’ll just stop cooking. See how you manage. Think Pret’s healthier, do you?”
“Don’t, then. Could do with slimming down yourself. Soon you won’t fit through the door.” He demolished half the burger, stabbed the next.
“Oh, *I’m* fat now? And here I was, wondering why you’ve suddenly gone all gym-and-groom. New jeans, that fancy leather jacket, a bloody *baseball cap*. Shaving your head to hide the bald spot. Who’s all that for? Not me, clearly. Got someone to compare me to, eh?”
“Let a man eat in peace.” Robert shoveled rice but dropped his fork, glowering. “Pass the ketchup.”
Emma yanked the Heinz bottle from the fridge, slammed it down, and stalked out. Her own dinner sat untouched.
She locked herself in Lily’s room, sank onto the bed. Tears welled up.
*Cook, clean, bend over backwards—for what? No thanks. Robert’s midlife-crisising, eyeing younger women. Lily treats me like staff. Just ‘cause I’m retired, they think they can walk all over me? I’d still be working if they hadn’t made redundancies. Experience means nothing now—just hire kids fresh out of uni. What do they know?*
*Up before dawn to fry eggs. Scrubbing, hoovering, no time to breathe. My own fault. Spoil ‘em, and they’ll ride you into the ground.* Tears streaked her cheeks. She swiped them away, hard.
She’d always thought they were happy. Not perfect, but decent. Lily at uni, doing well. Robert—didn’t drink, good job, paid the bills. Home tidy, food hot. What more did he want?
Emma studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. *Alright, a bit rounder, but not *fat*. Plump cheeks hide wrinkles, at least. Always loved my food. Cook brilliantly, too. Turns out they’d trade it for Deliveroo. Used to style my hair when I worked. Now it’s a ponytail—practical. What, I should hoover in heels? Still… could drop half a stone. And roots need doing.* She flopped back onto the bed, thinking.
Next morning, Emma didn’t leap up at dawn. She lay in, pretending to sleep. *I’m retired. Let them sort their own breakfast.*
The alarm blared. Emma feigned a cough, burrowed into the duvet.
“You ill?” Robert’s voice held zero concern.
“Mmm,” she mumbled.
“Mum? You okay?” Lily hovered in the doorway.
“Just tired. Help yourselves.”
Lily huffed and clattered about the kitchen. Soon, the kettle whistled, the fridge door thudded, muted voices drifted through. Emma strained to hear but stayed undercover, committed to her role.
Robert strode in reeking of expensive aftershave—*the one I bought him*. Then both left. Silence. Emma threw off the duvet, dozed off properly.
She woke an hour later, stretched, ambled to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs, crumbs everywhere. *I’m not their skivvy.* She showered, then rang Sarah, her old schoolmate.
“Em! Long time!” Sarah’s voice was just as loud as ever. “Bored of retirement yet?”
Emma admitted she missed her, fancied a break, hadn’t visited her parents’ grave in ages—mind if she crashed a few days?
“Course not! When?”
“Thought I’d head to the station now.”
“Right—I’ll whip up a pie!”
Emma packed a small bag, swept the crumbs into a pile, left a note: *Gone to Sarah’s. Back whenever.*
On the way to the station, doubt crept in. *Let them cope without me. See how they like it.* But was she overdoing it? *If no tickets, I’ll go home.* But there *were* tickets. The coach queue shuffled forward. Emma sighed and joined the end.
Sarah hugged her tight. Over tea and warm pie, they gabbed nonstop.
“Good on you. Now—what’s *really* going on?”
“Can’t fool you,” Emma sighed, spilling everything.
“Brilliant. Let ‘em sweat. Turn your phone off.”
“Too much?”
“Perfect. Tomorrow, salon. New ‘do. My mate Claire works there—remember her? Failing maths? Now she’s booked weeks ahead. Then shopping. We’ll make you a stunner. Watch Robert grovel.”
That night, Emma barely slept. *Are they fretting? Or relieved?*
Claire fussed over her—dye, brows, a chic chop. Sarah insisted on makeup. Exhausted, Emma caved.
The mirror shocked her. A glamorous stranger stared back. Claire booked her a manicure for 8 a.m.
“Look at you!” Sarah crowed outside. “Now, shopping.”
“Another time?”
“Nope. That outfit’s ancient. Beauty’s *pain*, love.” Sarah dragged her into the mall.
Emma emerged in wide-leg trousers, a silky blouse, a cream cardigan. She cluthed bags—a new dress, jacket, heels. She felt lighter, sharper. *Should’ve done this years ago.*
Outside Sarah’s, a broad-shouldered man with snow-white hair and a dark moustache approached.
“Hello, ladies,” he said, admiring Emma. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
“I’m not—” Emma blinked at Sarah.
“It’s *Paul*. Paul Fletcher,” Sarah nudged.
“*Paul?*” Emma gaped. The scrawny boy from Year 10 was now *this*?
They drank wine at Sarah’s, reminiscing. Paul’s lingering looks made Emma flush.
“He’s still smitten,” Sarah whispered after he left.
“Don’t be daft.”
“You’re a knockout now. He’s divorced, y’know. Army bloke. Got banged up overseas—wife bailed. Walked again against the odds. Bit of a limp, but solid.”Emma returned home to find her family humbled and grateful, realizing too late how much they needed her—but this time, she vowed to put herself first too.
