“If you dont like my motherleave!” snapped the husband, not expecting his wife to take him at his word.
Evening was drawing in, and the flat where Emily lived with her husband Oliver and his mother Margaret was usually quiet by now. But today had been off from the start. Two-year-old William had been fussy all day, Margaret found fault with everything, and Emily was exhausted. Shed tried her bestcooking Margarets favourite meals, keeping the flat spotless, looking after William. But pleasing Margaret was impossible.
“Emily, you folded the towels wrong again,” Margaret muttered, passing the bathroom. “How many times must I tell you? Corners facing in, not out!”
Or:
“Youve dressed the child all wrong, Emily! Its chilly out, and youve put him in that thin jumper! Hell catch cold!”
Emily sighed every time. She never argued, just endured, hoping things would settlethat Margaret would grow used to her, to William, to their life together. When it got unbearable, Oliver usually stayed silent. If Emily complained, hed shrug and say,
“Just ignore her, love. Mums getting on, nerves frayed.”
Emily had planned a surprise for their anniversary. Shed ordered a small cake, bought Oliver the leather belt hed been eyeing for months, dreamed of a cosy eveningjust the three of them, William included.
On the day, dinner was nearly ready, and thankfully, William was asleep when Margaret launched into another rowthis time over the soup being “too salty,” though it tasted fine.
“This is inedible!” Margaret shouted, banging her spoon on the table. “Trying to poison us, are you? You cant cook to save your life!”
Emily stood at the stove, gripping the ladle. The anniversary, the cake, the surpriseall ruined. She turned to Oliver, sitting at the table, eyes down. She waitedfor oncefor him to defend her, to stop this madness. But he said nothing.
“Oliver,” she said softly. “Arent you going to say anything?”
He stood, walking slowly into the hall. Emily followed.
“Mums right,” he said, not looking at her. “Youre always doing something wrong.”
Tears welled in Emilys eyes. This was the last straw. She stared at him; he stared at the wall.
“Do you even hear yourself?” Her voice shook. “Its our anniversary! II cooked, I tried! And your mother”
Oliver turned sharply. His eyes werent angryjust tired, indifferent.
“If you dont like my motherleave.”
The words were so casual, so ordinary, it took her a moment to grasp their weight. Hed said it like advice, not a death sentence. Then he walked away. Dinner was ruined. The night was ruined. Everything was ruined.
Emily sat on their bed, holding sleeping William. The tears had dried, leaving salt tracks. She was stunned. Hed said, *Leave*. Did he mean it? This was their home. Their family. Was he really ready to throw her and William away so easily? She didnt pack. She couldnt believe it was real. It felt like a bad dream that would break at dawn.
A day passed. Then another. Oliver didnt apologise. He was cold, distantcoming home from work, eating in silence, disappearing into his study or scrolling mindlessly on his phone. He barely spoke to her. Played with William mechanically, no joy left.
When Emily tried to talk, he brushed her off.
“Mums really hurt. Says you insulted her.”
“*I* insulted *her*?” Emily couldnt believe her ears. “She screamed at me over soup!”
“Doesnt matter,” Oliver cut in. “Its on you. Apologise first. Then maybe shell forgive you.”
No reconciliationjust an ultimatum. And Emily finally understood. This wasnt her home. She was temporary here. Tolerated as long as she played her part. The moment she stopped being perfect, she could be tossed out like rubbish. The fear shed felt that first night hardened into clarity. This wasnt family. It was a one-sided loyalty game. She owed Oliver and his mother everything. They owed her nothing.
She looked at William. He didnt belong here. Neither did she. This house, this airit was crushing her. Slowly, surely. And Oliver, her husband, just watched it happen. Worsehed pushed her to the edge himself.
Oliver sat in a café with his mate James, speaking slowly, weighing each word.
“Listen, mate, its me and Emily bit of a mess.”
James sipped his coffee. “Your mum again?”
Oliver nodded.
“Yeah. Shes old, nerves shot. Emilys young, should adapt. But she wont. Always some grievance.”
He was tired of the fightinghis mums nagging, Emilys resentment. He just wanted peace.
“Im sick of the drama,” he went on, spreading his hands. “Honestly? Maybe were better off apart. Sick of living on eggshells. Mum on one side, her on the other. Whats the point?”
James listened in silence.
“I told her straight: dont like my mumleave. What else could I say? A mans mums sacred. Raised me. Shes alone. And Emilys never happy.”
No regret in his voicejust self-righteous anger. He wouldnt take responsibility. He wanted Emily to decide. To leave on her own. Then his conscience would be clear. He wouldnt have “kicked her out.” Shed have “chosen” to go.
“Let her decide,” he repeated, convincing himself. “Had enough. I want quiet. Come home to peace. No complaints.”
He saw no fault in himself. It was Emilys fault for not getting along. He wouldnt admit the problem was his inactionhis refusal to protect his wife. He just wanted it gone. And in his mind, the only way was for Emily to leave.
The next day, Emily rented a small one-bed flat nearbyfound quickly through friends. She moved out quietly, without fuss. Oliver was at work. A van came; a few trips took the essentialsher and Williams things, some toys, a few books. No scenes. No tears.
When Oliver came home, the flat felt hollow. He walked into the bedroomher things gone. The kitchenhis half-eaten dinner on the table. A note sat there. Short. Cold.
*You said it. I did it. For your peace.*
Underneath, in smaller writing: *Williams with me.*
Oliver read it twice. Disbelieving. Shed really left? Hed assumed shed stay with her parents a few days, “cool off,” then return, apologetic. He waited for her call. A day. Two. Three. Silence.
Next week, he came home to no childs laughter. No William running to him yelling, “Daddy!” The flat was silent. Too silent.
He called Emily.
“Hi. How are you?”
“Fine,” she said, voice flat. No anger. No warmth. “Williams asleep.”
“Whenwhen are you coming back?” His own voice wavered.
“Why? You said it yourself: *Dont like itleave.* I left.”
“But I didnt think youd”
“I did,” she cut in. “For your peace. And mine. And Williams.”
She hung up. Oliver sat on the sofa, staring at nothing. Hed done this. Not by accident. Not by mistake. Hed thrown her out.
Months passed. Oliver lived alone with his mother. The flat hed wanted “free of tension” was quiet now. Too quiet.
Margarets complaints never stopped. Now they were all for him.
“Oliver, dont slouch at the table!”
“Oliver, whyd you put the tea there? Use a coaster!”
“Oliver, why so slow eating? Ive cleared already!”
Everything that had grated on Emily now grated on him. The lectures. The sulks. The endless nitpicking. No one to argue. No one to disrupt. Just silencebroken only by his mothers voice. And her suffocating control.
He woke to her voice. Came home to her voice. Hed trapped himself. Hed wanted Emily gone for peace. And hed got itdead silence and constant disapproval.
Sometimes, he saw Emily from afar in the park with William. She looked calm. Free. No shouting. No fighting. Shed left, just as hed told her to. And taken everything that made his life whole with her.
He was master of his house. But it held no love. No joy. No warmth. Just silence and someone elses rule. And this new reality was his punishment. Daily. Unending.
