The guests had left, but the resentment lingered.
“Mum, how can you say such things?” Emily slammed a dirty plate into the sink, making it clatter against the edge. “Ungrateful? For what? What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For everything I’ve sacrificed for you! For putting up with your father all those years for your sake! For denying myself so you could have a decent education and clothes!” Catherine stood in the middle of the kitchen, her face flushed with anger, gripping a tea towel tightly.
“Mum, stop! The guests just left, and you’re already at my throat! What did I do wrong? Didn’t greet your friends properly? Didn’t set the table? Didn’t bake the cake?”
“Exactly—you didn’t do anything!” Catherine spun around and began scrubbing mugs furiously. “You sat there like a stranger while Margaret talked about her grandchildren. Stayed silent when Linda asked how Oliver was doing. Didn’t even say *thank you* when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed after three hours at the table with her mother’s friends—their endless questions, comparisons, and unsolicited advice on how to live properly. The constant dissatisfaction with everything and everyone.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to smile and nod every single minute.”
“Grown!” her mother scoffed. “A grown woman doesn’t live with her mother, by the way. Not still hanging on at forty.”
“I’m thirty-five, not forty! And I’m *not* hanging on! I pay bills, buy groceries, clean, cook!”
“Cook!” Catherine turned back, fury in her eyes. “What do you cook? Pasta with sausages? Who made the roast today? Who cooked the pies? Who cleaned the whole house before the guests arrived?”
Emily collapsed onto a chair, drained. These never-ending grievances, the need to prove herself, exhausted her more than any job.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else did you want me to say?”
“I wanted a *thank you*!” Catherine slapped the table. “Just a simple *Thanks, Mum, for letting me stay here after my divorce. Thanks for helping with Oliver, taking him to the doctor, picking him up from school.* But no! You think I *owe* you!”
Emily felt a lump in her throat. Yes, her mother helped with her son. Yes, she’d lived in her mum’s house for three years since the divorce. But she *tried*—worked two jobs, contributed to bills.
“Mum, I *do* thank you—maybe not in words, but in actions. I don’t ask you for money. I work. I help around the house.”
“Help!” Her mother sat opposite her, still clutching the tea towel. “Do you know what Margaret said today? That her Jessica has a new man. A good one—well-off. Offered her and the kids a place right away. And you? Three years alone, just work and home, like a pendulum. No life of your own.”
“How is that *my* fault?” Emily snapped. “I can’t just order a man from a shop! If I meet someone decent, fine. If not, I’ll manage alone.”
“Alone!” Catherine stood and paced. “Do you think I’m immortal? I’m seventy-two! How much longer do I have? And then what? You’ll be completely alone with a child to raise.”
“Oliver’s not a baby. He’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The hardest age! He needs a father, a man’s influence. What does he see? A mother working dawn till dusk, and a grandmother raising him.”
Emily pushed back from the table. The conversation was going in circles—soon her mother would list every mistake, every failure, every wrong decision.
“Mum, I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, run away!” Catherine called after her. “Like always when things get serious!”
Emily stopped in the doorway. The words stung—because they held some truth.
“I’m not running. I’m just tired of this. Nothing I do is ever good enough.”
“Good enough?” Catherine stepped closer. “Then tell me—what *is* good enough? Explain why, at thirty-five, you still live with your mother. Why you have no home, no family. Why my grandson grows up without a father?”
“Because that’s how life turned out!” Emily burst out. “Not everyone’s born with a silver spoon! I had to raise a child, work, not chase after men!”
“Chase after men!” her mother gasped. “Is that what you call trying to have a life?”
“Mum, I’ve had enough!” Emily turned and hurried down the hall, her mother’s furious voice still echoing behind her.
She shut her bedroom door and leaned against it. The room was quiet. Oliver sat at his desk by the window, doing homework. He turned when she entered.
“Mum, were you shouting at Nan again?”
“Not shouting. Just talking.”
He gave her a sceptical look. At thirteen, he knew better.
“I heard her. And you. Both yelling.”
Emily sighed and ruffled his hair—dark like hers, grey eyes like his father’s. Tall for his age, too serious for thirteen.
“Adults argue sometimes. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“What were you arguing about?”
She sat on the edge of his bed. How could she explain what she barely understood herself? The constant disapproval, the guilt, the resentment?
“Nan thinks I’m not a good daughter. I think I’m doing my best.”
“I think you’re good,” Oliver said firmly. “You work hard. Help me with homework. Cook nice meals. Don’t shout like some mums.”
“Thanks, love.” She nearly cried. “What did you think of the guests today?”
He grimaced.
“They kept going on about their perfect grandkids. Then started asking why you’re single. Nan got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Auntie Margaret said her daughter married well, Nan went red and started defending you. They all looked… doubtful.”
Emily exhaled. So it wasn’t just her behaviour. Her mother had been embarrassed in front of her friends—ashamed of a daughter who hadn’t settled down.
“Olly, do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. When I need help lifting something, or when boys boast about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re both mum and dad.”
Her heart ached. Thirteen, and already so wise. So lonely.
“What if I met someone? Would you mind?”
“If he’s nice, no. Just don’t let him hurt you. Or kick me out.”
“Nobody’s kicking you out,” she said firmly. “You’re the most important thing in my life.”
He smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed on the bed, remembering the afternoon.
The guests had arrived at two. Catherine, in her best dress, hair freshly styled, had prepared for days—roast, pies, Victoria sponge cake.
Margaret, Linda, and Deborah—old work friends, all retired, all obsessed with their children and grandchildren.
At first, talk was civil—health, prices, politics. Then Margaret pulled out photos. Linda’s granddaughter got into uni; her grandson won a swimming trophy. Deborah’s son bought her a new phone, was getting a mortgage.
Then eyes turned to Catherine. What could *she* brag about? A divorced daughter living at home? A grandson doing well but fatherless?
Catherine praised Emily’s work ethic, her responsibility. But pity hung in the air.
“And her love life?” Linda asked gently.
“Not happening,” Catherine muttered.
“Men these days,” Deborah sighed. “Either drinking, jobless, or married.”
“Maybe she’s too picky?” Margaret suggested. “My Jessica was fussy too. Then she realised—no one’s perfect. Just find someone kind who loves kids.”
Emily had sat there, cheeks burning. Discussed like a bargain bin item. Judged by women who knew nothing of her struggles.
After the divorce, she *had* tried. Met men, hoped—but it never worked. Either they couldn’t accept Oliver, or they weren’t what they seemed.
A year ago, there was Daniel—widowed, two kids. Seemed ideal. Then she realised he wanted a free nanny, not a wife. Before him, Steven—younger, good job, but Oliver annoyed him. *”Can’t stand having a kid around all the time.”* Then vanished.
Then there was Paul, who borrowed money and disappeared.
After that, Emily gave up. Focused on work, Oliver, improving things with her mum.
But today proved—her mother didn’t understand. To her, an unmarried daughter at thirty-five was shameful, a failure.
Emily went to the window. Rain drizzled outside. Soon, autumn, then winter. Another year in her mother’s house, another year of criticism.
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe it *was* time to change—rent aShe kissed Oliver goodnight, then whispered to herself, *”Next year, we’ll find our own place.”* and turned off the light.
