12March
Yesterday, my mother, Margaret Smith, announced in the hallway that my brother, James, had just signed the papers his bride is moving in tomorrow. I heard it from the neighbour, Eleanor Brown, who was gesturing at the shop window, Three pounds a kilo for tomatoes! Its daylight robbery!
I shook my head, adjusting the tote on my shoulder. These days you cant even live on a pension, I muttered. When I was younger a modest pension kept us afloat, now youre just scraping the bottom of the barrel.
Eleanor asked, Do you live alone? Does your son help?
I answered, I live with my son. James works long hours as a software developer for a big firm. He brings home a decent salary, but hes rarely home.
She sighed, At least you have him. My grandchildren only pop in for the holidays; the rest of the time its just me and my empty flat.
We said our goodbyes and I trudged home. My bags dragged my hands, my legs ached after a day of shopping. At sixtythree, the aches remind me theyre not going away.
The flat was quiet. James wasnt there, as usual. I unpacked the groceries, set the kettle on, and settled by the window with a mug of tea, watching the dull autumn street outside.
My life has been steady since my husband died fifteen years ago. I learned to cope on my own, raised James, gave him an education and a foothold in the world. Hes thirtyfive now, earns well, and we share a threebedroom flat that my late husband once received from the factory.
James occupies one bedroom, I have another, and the third is the living room. We each lead our own lives, only crossing at dinner, and even then not always. I dont complain; James is a good son, supportive financially, never drinks to excess, never causes trouble. His love life, however, has been a series of fleeting romances, never anything serious.
When I gently broached the subject of marriage, hed say, Dont worry, Mum, Ill find the right one in time.
It seemed he finally did. Over the past six months hes been staying out later, coming home less often, answering my questions evasively. I could tell he was smitten.
One evening, after washing the dishes, I heard the front door open. James was home earlier than usual, his eyes bright and his hair a little dishevelled.
Mum, are you in the kitchen? he called, excitement in his voice.
Yes, darling, Im here, I replied, standing by the sink.
He stepped into the doorway, and I sensed something important.
Mum, I need to tell you something, he said.
I nodded, urging him forward. He paced the room, choosing his words.
We signed the papers yesterday, he blurted, and Emily will move in tomorrow.
The world seemed to tilt.
What? I managed to gasp.
Im married, Mum. Yesterday we got married. Emily is moving in tomorrow.
I stared, stunned. Youre joking?
No, Mum, Im serious.
How could you keep this from me?
It just happened, spontaneously.
My voice trembled, Spontaneously? A wedding cant just be spontaneous!
He tried to calm me, Mum, Im an adult, I make my own decisions.
Ive never even seen Emily!
Youll meet her tomorrow. Shes a good person, youll like her.
I sank into a chair, the shock choking my breath.
Please say something, James pleaded, crouching beside me.
What should I say? Congratulations? You didnt even bother to warn me beforehand?
Its a warning, right now.
After youve already signed? Thats not a warning, thats a fact!
Im sorry, it just happened.
I rose, retreated to my bedroom, closed the door, and let my face fall onto my hands. Tears slipped down my cheeks, but I swallowed them back.
I spent the night sleepless, turning the situation over and over. Who was Emily? Why had James rushed into marriage? Was she pregnant?
The next morning I rose with a heavy head and red eyes. James had already left for work, leaving a note on the kitchen table: Mum, well be back this evening. Please have something for dinner. Love you.
Love you is easy to say. But how did I feel?
I set about cooking mechanically: boiled borscht, fried patties, tossed a salad. My hands moved on autopilot while my mind raced. By evening I had cleaned the floors, dusted the surfaces, and set the table. The flat was spotless, but a cold feeling lingered, like stray cats in the heart.
Around eight, the door opened. I was drying my hands with a towel when James and his bride stepped into the hallway. Emily was tall, slender, with long blond hair, bright makeup, and an air of twentyfive. She wore a stylish leather jacket, designer jeans, and a gold chain that caught the light.
Hello, Mum, she said, extending a hand.
Hello, I shook her cold palm.
She laughed brightly, James told me youd make dinner. How lovely!
I forced a dry tone, Please, come into the kitchen.
At dinner Emily chattered nonstop about the wedding, how wonderful James was, and how happy she felt. James looked at her with adoring eyes, catching every word. I ate my borscht in silence, nodding occasionally, feeling increasingly out of place.
Midmeal Emily asked, Mum, may I call you Mum?
As you wish, I replied, flatly.
She beamed, Oh, wonderful! I lost my own mother years ago. Its a blessing to have a lovely motherinlaw!
After dinner James showed Emily around the flat. I stayed behind, clearing the table. He announced, This will be our bedroom.
Emily blinked, And where will Mum sleep?
We have a room for her, James replied.
I clenched my jaw. She seemed to think I would give up my own room.
Later that night, after James and Emily retired to their room, I lay in mine listening to their muffled laughter through the walls. Loneliness settled over me like a heavy fog.
The next morning I prepared breakfast as usual. Emily appeared an hour later, yawning.
Good morning, Mum! she sang.
Good morning, I muttered.
She praised my care, You always make such a nice breakfast.
I always do, I replied.
She confessed, I dont like eating in the mornings, just coffee.
James likes a hearty breakfast, I said.
Youll get used to it, she replied cheerfully, pouring herself a cup.
I turned over a pancake, thinking that Emily was already planning to change my sons habits.
James arrived, sat down, and thanked me for the food. Emily made a face, Pancakes? So many calories!
James shrugged, Im used to this.
I averted my gaze, the sting of their words sharp.
After breakfast Emily began unpacking three large suitcases and a mountain of boxes, filling the spare bedroom and rearranging the wardrobe.
Where will I keep my makeup? she asked, flustered.
Im not sure, well find a spot.
Can we ask Mum to clear a shelf in the bathroom?
I paused in the hallway, Theres no spare shelf.
But theres a whole cabinet! she protested.
Its full of my things.
She pouted, Can you just move something?
James intervened, Mum, could you free up one shelf, please?
Reluctantly I shifted my bottles, cleared a space, and retreated to my room, tears welling again. I felt like a stranger in my own home.
A week later Emily suggested, Shall we move the sofa in the living room? It would look cozier.
The sofas been here for twenty years, I replied.
Change is good, she chirped.
I said nothing, slipped back to my bedroom.
Emily never cooked; she ate ready meals and left the dishes piled up. I silently washed them.
One evening I asked, Emily, could you please go to the shop for some bread? Im a bit tired.
She rolled her eyes, Im exhausted, could James help?
James is at work.
So youll just go yourself, as you always do?
I grabbed a bag and left for the corner shop, the weight of the bag pulling at my arm, my chest aching. When I returned, the flat was still as Id left it, Emily lounging on the sofa, James not yet home.
At dinner Emily announced, James, lets have a party! Invite my friends!
James smiled, Good idea.
She turned to me, Mum, are you okay with that?
My opinion matters? I asked, weary.
James interjected, Of course it does, Mum!
I replied, Then Im against it. I need peace.
Emily pleaded, Just once, well keep it down.
No.
James tried to mediate, Please, Mum, just this once.
I stood, Do what you like. Ill go to my neighbour.
I left, spent the evening with Eleanor, sipping tea and venting. She laughed, Young wives always try to push the motherinlaw out!
Its my flat, I snapped.
She encouraged, Stand your ground, or youll be trampled.
I returned home late, the music still blaring. I locked myself in my room.
The next morning the flat was a mess: dishes piled, ashtrays full, wine spilt. Emily slept, James snored. I spent three hours restoring order.
Emily emerged at lunch, surprised, All cleaned? Thank you!
Wheres James? I asked.
Hes asleep.
She sighed, Were moving out soon, we need space.
I stared, This is my flat.
She tried to convince me to move elsewhere, Youre alone, were a young couple, we need room.
Its mine, I said.
She persisted, But James is your son too, right?
Its registered in my name.
She shrugged, Family matters more than paperwork.
I told her plainly, I wont go anywhere. This is my home while Im alive.
She huffed, You wont live with us forever.
Later that night James came home, and I asked him to talk.
Son, I need to speak seriously, I began.
He listened, Im all ears, Mum.
I heard Emily say I should move out for your freedom.
He flushed, She didnt mean it like that
I pressed, What does she mean?
He whispered, We sometimes want to be alone.
I replied, You have your own room.
He sighed, Its not enough. We want the whole flat for ourselves.
I shouted, This is my flat! Ive lived here all my life!
He answered, I know, but maybe we should consider a flat of my aunt or someone else?
I could not believe my own son asking me to leave the place Id built.
James left, and I sat in the dark, the weight of his words crushing me.
That night I called a lettingagent and arranged for a valuation.
Would you like to downsize? the agent asked.
Ill buy a onebed flat for myself. I dont need this huge place any more.
He noted, Lots of people are doing that now parents move to smaller homes, children keep the bigger one.
I agreed, Im selling and buying for myself.
The next dinner, I announced, Im selling the flat.
James choked on his drink, Emily dropped her fork.
What?! they cried in unison.
Im moving into a onebedroom flat. Ill have my own space.
James went pale, Youve lost it, Mum!
Im perfectly sane. You wanted freedom, so youll have it the whole flat.
Emily shouted, You cant! Were family!
I replied, A family that tries to push a mother out isnt really a family.
I retreated to my room, locked the door, and heard their voices echoing in the kitchen.
James later knocked, Mum, please open.
I opened, What do you want?
He looked ashamed, Im sorry.
Its too late.
He pleaded, You cant just?
I can. Im tired of being a burden.
He sobbed, Youre not a burden!
I whispered, Your wife told me I was extra, and you backed her up.
He murmured, I never meant that. I just wanted everyone happy.
I asked, What now?
He suggested, Rent a place. Or buy one. You earn enough.
Until then?
Save up.
I closed the door, left him standing.
The next morning I confirmed the viewing schedule with the agent. Emily burst into the kitchen, eyes red, Mum, are you really selling?
Indeed.
Where will we go?
Its your problem.
She cried, Youre my mother! How can you do this?
I answered, How did you ask my husbands mother to move?
She sobbed, I didnt mean to hurt you, I just wanted to feel at home.
I left her weeping over her coffee.
That evening James returned, sat opposite me, and said, I understand now. We were wrong.
I replied, Its good you see that.
He asked, Is there any other way?
I said, You and Emily could rent elsewhere, Ill stay here.
He protested, But we have this flat.
I answered, Its mine.
He dropped his head, I was ready to push you out.
I said, Love is shown by actions, not words. Your choices have spoken.
He stood, paced, then begged, Give us one more chance, please.
I hesitated, then said, One last chance.
James embraced me, but I didnt return the hug.
Emily later knelt, Im sorry, Mum. I was selfish. Ill change.
I replied, Well see.
Over the following months Emily actually helped with chores, asked for recipes, and listened. James started buying groceries for me and checking in on my health. The tension eased, and the flat slowly felt like a home again.
One evening Emily knocked on my bedroom door.
May I come in?
Come in.
She sat on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting.
Thank you for giving us a chance.
What for?
For not forcing us out, for letting us learn.
I admitted, I was too harsh at the start.
She smiled, We made a mistake too. We married without telling you, and I was rude.
We all err.
She added, I hope I become a good motherinlaw.
I said, Ill be a good motherinlaw if you keep trying.
She laughed, I might even become a grandmother someday.
I replied, That would be wonderful.
A few months later, over dinner, James said, Mum, thanks for not giving up on us.
I answered, Youre my son; I could never abandon you.
He added, We hurt you, but Ive learned to put you first.
I concluded, Forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling.
Emily took my hand, Youre the best motherinlaw.
I smirked, And you try to be a decent daughterinlaw.
We all laughed, the sound warm and genuine.
That night I went to bed with a lighter heart. The storm of conflict had passed, leaving calm. My home is once again a place of peace, not a battlefield. My son returned to me, and my daughterinlaw grew closer.
Lesson:Family ties survive only when we listen, respect each others space, and are willing to forgive the mistakes that inevitably happen.
