Dont bring your mother to our house, I had begged my wife, Anne, that night.
What if? Paul started, his voice trembling. What if we took her here?
Where to, Paul? Anne gestured at the modest threebed flat we called home, sixty square metres of cramped comfort. To the childrens room? With Arthur and Emily?
Lay her there, bedridden, with? I could hear the dread in her tone. Do you want the kids to see her like that? To breathe that misery?
The four of us were winding down for the night. Anne was wiping a sticky juice spot from the kitchen table, one foot nudging a toy fire engine that fiveyearold Arthur had carelessly left in the doorway.
In the bathroom, the water drummed against the tiles as Paul bathed twoyearold Emily. Her squeals rose above the spray, and Pauls deep, feignedgrim laugh mingled with her shrieks. I smiled, feeling the tension ease. It was an ordinary, decent eveningthe sort I later recalled as the very picture of domestic steadiness: the mortgage paid on time, a tidy sum building in the holiday fund, the fridge never empty, a healthy husband and healthy children.
Then the telephone on the windowsill buzzed, sliding a few inches across the countertop before dying out. An unfamiliar number lingered on the screen.
Anne frowned. A creditcard advert, or some bank security call at this hour?
She hesitated, then her finger pressed the green button.
Hello?
Anne? a voice cracked on the other end. Its Aunt Zina, Laras neighbour from Brambleton.
My heart dropped. Brambleton was my motherinlaws little village, a place Paul and I had erased from our lives two years earlier.
Good evening, Aunt Zina, I answered, keeping my voice low so Paul, still in the shower, wouldnt hear. How did you get my number?
I found it in Laras notebook She Oh, dear she hiccuped, tears breaking through. Anne, tragedy Laras been in an accident.
I froze, clutching the rag in my hand.
What do you meanin an accident?
She was on the motorway. Went into town at night, no idea why, then collided headon. The windscreen shattered
Thank God the airbags deployed and the passengers survived, but the car it was a total loss, Anne. The paperwork went up in flames too. Lara was pulled out, but the injuries are severe.
The water in the bath fell silent. The bathroom door swung open and Paul emerged, cradling Emily wrapped in a towel. He tried to keep his smile, but when he saw my face, it faded.
Whats happened, Anne?
I pressed the phone to my chest, inhaled deeply.
Aunt Zina, I understand. Well decide what to do. Thank you for calling. I hung up and turned to Paul. Paul, put Emily on the sofa. We need to talk.
We sat at the kitchen table. The childrenArthur and Emilyhad settled unusually quickly, their faces reflecting that something was amiss. Paul clasped his hands together, his knuckles white.
Shes alive, then, he muttered, staring out the dark window.
The doctor says her condition is critical but stable, I said, turning the phone over in my hands. A broken hip, a shattered femur, ribs, neck surgeries are required, but
But what?
The surgeon was blunt: shell be bedridden for at least six months, maybe longer, given her age and how little she moves on her own.
Pauls cheek twitched. The car burnt down?
Every bit of it. The documents, too. Aunt Zina could only say that Lara seemed to have lost concentration, maybe a distraction, and thats how she ended up on the opposite lane.
Paul rose abruptly, pacing the tiny kitchentwo steps forward, two steps back.
Two years, he said, not looking at me. Two years we finally got a breath of peace. Wed just begun to live normallyno more unexpected calls, no whining, no mess How she used to twist my arm, demanding the flat, forbidding us from putting it in our name. She called Arthur a brat, said Id led him astray
I walked over, forcing a sad smile. Paul, the past is past The doctor needs a decision. Tomorrow theyll move her from intensive care to a trauma ward. Shell need constant care.
The nurses there they only see her once a day for free, Paul muttered.
I lifted my head. What care, Anne? Do you expect me to quit my job and shoulder the whole burden? Or should I resign?
Weve just gotten back on our feet. We have plansnew car, paying for the kids clubs
Theres a private carer option, I ventured cautiously.
Youve seen the price? he snapped. Fulltime livein care starts at six hundred pounds a week, at least. Add medicines, nappies, food Thats practically my whole salary, Anne. Or yours.
I know.
So how do we survive? Eat only porridge? For whose sake? For the woman who turned me into a oldwoman, while she lived her own life?
His voice cracked with a bitterness that had been clawing at him for yearsa grievance from a childhood spent with grandparents while his mother chased ambitions in the city, swapping lovers as often as gloves.
Paul, she cant even turn herself over, I said softly.
What then?! he roared. Is it her destiny, Anne? Why should we and our children pay for it? Why should I take away Arthurs swimming lessons, Emilys music lessons, our normal life, and hand it all over to her?
Because if we dont, it will eat us alive, he snarled.
He fell silent. I dont love her, Anne, he whispered, the words tasting like ash. Its terrible to admit, but I feel nothing but hatred.
I know. I dont love her either. After what she said about my parents about us theres no love left. But, Paul
Then why bother?
Because were human, not beasts. Justice demands we look after her, I said, a bitter smile twisting my lips. Where was justice when I was the schoolboy in a threadbare coat, and she came once a month with a sack of sweets, playing the sweetminded mother in front of the neighbours? Where was it when she demanded the money wed saved for the birth?
There was never any justice, I said firmly. And there will never be. This isnt about her; its about us, about what well have to live with later.
Paul pinched the bridge of his nose. Fine. Lets count what we have in the rainyday fund.
Weve set aside three hundred thousand pounds for a new car and two hundred thousand for a holiday, he said.
Half a million, I replied. The operation itself is covered by the NHS, but they may ask us to buy imported plates and screws. Medicines, a private carer He pulled out his phone and opened the calculator. A carer in hospital costs about two to three thousand pounds a day. Thats a hundred thousand a month. Six hundred thousand in six months.
He stared at me, eyes widened. Anne, thats all we have. Well be wiped clean.
I fell silent. The numbers were frighteningthey were the hardwon fruits of years of labour.
…What if Paul began, hesitantly. What if we brought her home?
Where, Paul? To the childrens room? With Arthur and Emily? I asked, gesturing at the cramped flat. A bedridden woman, sores, constant care, in the middle of the night? Do you want the kids to see that?
No, he replied quickly. No, of course not.
Into our bedroom? Then wed have to sleep on the sofa. When would you work? Shell demand attention every second. Shell manipulate, guilttrip, scream. Well end up divorced in a month. I cant do that, Paul. My mother turned our home into a nightmare when she was helpless and spiteful. She would make our lives a living hell.
So there are no options, he said, resigned. Either we lose the money, or we just leave her there?
Social services, I suggested. We could apply for a state care home for the elderly.
Youve been to places like that? he sneered. Its a hospice, a oneway ticket. Shell be there for two or three months, then
Almost free, apart from a pension. Theyll look after her.
Paul paced again, measuring the space in his mind. I cant, he finally said, his voice shaking. I hate her, but I cant send her to a to that dreadful place. Then Id lose any respect for myself.
I exhaled. All right. Heres the plan.
I grabbed the notebook and pen that lay on the fridge. We wont drain our savings completely. Well hire a private carer directly, not through an agency, to keep the rate down. About forty to fifty pounds a day.
Still a lot, Paul muttered.
It is, but we can manage if we cut back. No restaurants, no cinema, no new clothes for the next six months. We wont buy a new car yet. The emergency fund will go to medicines and unexpected costs.
Paul watched me write the numbers, a faint admiration softening his features. Hed fallen in love with my resolve once, long ago.
When will she be discharged? he asked. In a month or two? Where do we take her? Back to the village?
The village has no proper facilities. Shell have to go into a cheap studio flat, with a carer commuting there.
Thats another fifteen to twenty thousand a month, he warned.
True.
Well work only for her, maybe a year, maybe two, until she stands againif she ever does.
Paul, I said, laying down my pen, we wont bring her into our home. Thats my condition. I want to keep our family, our sanity, our childrens childhood. Well pay for her care, but well keep our distance. Its the only fair way.
He lingered in silence, then echoed, Paying her off sounds cynical.
Its honest, I replied. Well cover the doctors, the food, the hygiene. Well visit fortnightly, drop supplies. I cant imagine life without you, Paul.
We followed the plan. The first meeting with the social services was tenseher mother blamed the son for becoming disabled, while my motherinlaw accused me of being the cause of the rift. We found a carer, bought everything the doctors prescribed, and began scouring the market for a modest flat for the elderly woman. Every day the phone rang with new complaints, but we endured, because we are not beasts. The memory of those sleepless nights still haunts me, but I smile now, recalling how we managed to keep our family afloat amidst the storm.
