“One more word, Margaret, about what I owe and to whom, and youll be eating through a straw for the rest of your days.”
“Lovely, Charlotte, really lovelyno ones denying that. But its watery. No depth, do you see? Plenty of liquid, but no soul to it. Like you just drowned a beetroot in tinted water.”
Margarets voice, soft and thick like warm custard, filled the cramped kitchen. She pushed away her half-eaten bowl of beetroot soup, and the gesture spoke louder than words. The verdict was in. Charlotte, standing at the sink, didnt turn around. She just grabbed a sponge and began scrubbing an invisible spot off the hob with surgical precision. Her shoulders were rigid, her back ramrod straight. Not a single muscle twitched in her face as she absorbed the judgment, delivered under the guise of caring advice.
Benjamin, her husband and Margarets son, sat at the table, hiding behind his oversized porcelain mug. He took a loud bite of his digestive biscuit, washed it down with tea, and reached for another. He didnt look at his mother or his wife. His gaze was fixed on the biscuit tin in the middle of the table as if it were the most fascinating object in the universe. He was in his own little world, wrapped in the cosy cocoon of tea and sugar, untouched by the quiet verbal execution happening beside him. This was womens business, and hed no intention of interfering.
“Ill clear this up, and then well move to the sitting room,” Charlotte said evenly, still not turning around. Her voice was devoid of emotionlike a flight attendant announcing the planes arrival.
She began stacking plates. Her movements were economical, almost mechanical. Not a single wasted gesture, not an accidental sound. No clatter of dishes, no clink of cutlery. She arranged the plates with such care, it was as if she were performing a delicate ritualone wrong move, and disaster would strike. This brittle order in her actions was her only defence against Margarets honeyed, poisonous voice.
Margaret, satisfied with the effect shed produced, rose from her chair with regal grace and swept into the sitting room. She didnt just sit on the sofano. She lowered herself into the old, high-backed armchair by the fireplace, which immediately transformed into a throne. She settled in, smoothed her dress, and began inspecting the room. Her sharp, critical gaze slid over the shelves, the corners, the surfaces. This wasnt idle observationit was an inspection.
When Charlotte and Benjamin joined her, Margaret sighed dramatically, her eyes fixed on a point just above their heads.
“Oh, Ben, dear, look” Her voice was heavy with sorrow and wisdom. She gestured delicately toward the large framed photograph on the wall. “There, on the corner. Dust. Nonot just dust. Neglect. When a home has a proper mistress, the air is different. It hums with cleanliness. Here, its just tired.”
Benjamin dutifully squinted at the frame, as if trying to see what she meant, then gave a vague grunt before taking another sip of tea. He didnt argue. Didnt defend. Just acknowledged. And Charlotte, standing in the doorway with an empty tray, froze. She looked at her husbandhis blank, indifferent facethen at Margaret, radiant on her makeshift throne, and felt the icy calm shed fought so hard to maintain begin to crack.
“Its not about the dust, Ben,” Margaret sighed tragically, as though sharing sacred knowledge. “The dust is just a symptom.”
She adjusted an imaginary crease in her dress, settling deeper into the chair. Every inch of her exuded confidence in her own righteousness. She wasnt just a guest in her sons homeshe was the last bastion of order in a chaotic, crumbling world.
“When my mother-in-law, Edith, God rest her soul, was alive, I warmed her bed every night without being asked. Not out of fearout of respect. I knew my place. Knew she was the backbone of this family. And now? Now young people think marriage is just two people sharing a space. Partnership, they call it. What a wretched word.”
Charlotte, letting the tray rest on the counter with unnatural precision, leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. She wasnt pretending to busy herself anymore. She just watched. Her face was a mask, but her narrowed eyes followed every movement in the room.
Benjamin, silent the whole time, gave a slow nod, as if confirming an unshakable truth. He drained his tea, set the cup down, and stood.
“Just fetching another cuppa,” he muttered.
He walked right past Charlotte, barely a metre away, without so much as glancing at her. Oblivious to the tension thick enough to cut with a knife, he ambled toward the kettle, leaving his mother to dismantle his wife, word by word.
Charlotte watched him go. She wasnt listening to Margaret anymore. She was watching Benjamin. His broad, obedient shoulders. The way he mindlessly grabbed another biscuit. He wasnt just a spectator in this performancehe was part of it. Every sip of tea, every approving nod, legitimised every word his mother said.
“A proper family runs on hierarchy, on order,” Margaret continued, her voice gaining strength in the absence of resistance. “The husband is the head. His motherthe wisdom. The wife is the hands, the support. She must create warmthnot just with a duster, but with humility, with obedience. She must honour her mother-in-law as her own, for through her comes the familys blessing. Theres no shame in that, Charlotte. Its how things have always been.”
Charlotte slowly turned her gaze from the kitchenwhere her husband was noisily crunching biscuitsback to Margaret, who was now staring into space like a prophet delivering a sermon.
“Because that is our lot, dear. To honour our husbands and their mothers. To serve the family. Thats not a burdenits the natural order. And you, as his wife, must accept it. Without question.”
Margarets final words fell into the silence like stones into still water. She leaned back, satisfied. The lecture was over. She expected submissiona meek nod, at least.
Reality had other plans.
Charlotte, whod been standing motionless in the doorway, suddenly stirred. She unfolded her arms and stepped forwardnot with anger, but with cold, fluid purpose. Her steps were silent, her gaze locked on the armchair.
Margaret watched her approach, confusion flickering in her eyes before settling into smug satisfaction. She must have thought her daughter-in-law was coming to apologise.
Charlotte didnt stop at a polite distance. She took one last step, invading the space Margaret considered untouchable, then leaned inslowly, until Margaret could feel her breath.
“One more word, Margaret,” Charlotte whispered, her voice so quiet only the older woman could hear, “about what I owe and to whom, and youll be eating through a straw for the rest of your days.”
Margarets smile vanished. Not just fadedshattered. The regal mask crumbled, leaving only a frightened old woman.
Benjamin walked back in just then, dropping his biscuit at the sight. “Charlotte, have you lost your mind?” he roared.
Charlotte straightened, turning that same icy stare on him.
“And you?”
It wasnt a question. It was an accusation.
“You sat there,” she said, every word precise, “chewing your biscuits, nodding along while she tore me apart in my own home. You listened to her lecture me on my ‘place,’ on my ‘duty’ to serve. And you nodded, Ben. You bloody nodded.”
Benjamins face paled. He opened his mouthto protest, to say it wasnt like thatbut nothing came out.
Margaret, recovering slightly, clutched her chest. “Ben, sheshe threatened me”
“Quiet,” Charlotte said without looking at her.
The word was soft, but final. Margaret shrank back.
Charlotte kept her eyes on Benjamin. “Choice time. Simple. Either your mother gets up, puts on her coat, and leaves my houseand never sets foot here againor you go to the bedroom, pack your things, and leave with her. Right now. No discussions. No delays. Her ‘order’ or our life. Whats it going to be, Ben?”
Silence.
Benjamin stood frozen, his gaze darting between Charlottes steel expression and Margarets terrified one. He knewthis was the end. Any move he made would be the final blow.
He chose the second option, stammering that he just needed to make sure his mother would be all rightbut he packed nearly everything, so Charlotte knew. His choice was made.
And that was fine by her. She wasnt living for anyone else anymore. This was her life.
