Youre a burden, not a wife, my motherinlaw blurted in front of the whole family while I was refilling the teapot, oblivious that Id been the one who cleared her debts.
Michael, love, pass me that prawn salad, Margaret Harrington called to her son with a tone that suggested hed just marched back from the front lines, victorious over an entire army. Her voice was soft, almost melodic, yet beneath it lay a command no one dared to ignore.
Michael sprang from his seat, dragging his chair across the floor with a screech that made the tablecloth quiver. He swept around the guests, shielding me as if I might somehow interfere with his role as the devoted son. I shifted in my chair, pretending to be engrossed in my glass of orange juice, while a cold irony settled in my gutone Id learned to keep well hidden.
The same little drama replayed at every family gathering for the better part of a year. The ritual was identical each time: Michaelthe hero, the saviour, the familys rock. And mea woman standing slightly to the side, a convenient accessory whose duties were to pour drinks, grin at jokes that fell flat, and keep quiet when required.
Margaret seized the salad bowl from Michaels hands with the solemnity of receiving a trophy after months of arduous negotiations. She placed the dish in the centre of the table like a queen crowning herself.
A true man, the pillar of the family! she announced loudly, scanning the assembled relatives. Not like some who only know how to flirt. Everything rests on his shoulders; he carries it all.
I pretended to adjust the napkin on my lap, masking the expression on my face. His shoulders meant my moneythe very cash Id secretly funneled into her failing boutique. Thirtythousand poundsan amount that still made Michaels hands tremble when we transferred the final instalment.
Let them think its me, he whispered later. Itll be easier for Mum to accept. You know her view on a woman being the breadwinner.
Yes, I knew. And I agreed. What difference did it make who got the credit if the family was saved from shame and relentless debt collectors? At the time I thought it didnt matter.
Emily, why are you so pale? Margarets voice pulled me from my thoughts. Uncle Victors plate is empty. Put some meat on it for him.
I slipped a slice of roast onto his plate. Uncle Victor smiled sheepishly, but no one ever dared to argue with Margaret.
As I served the hot dish, she continued her monologue, apparently addressed to everyone but clearly aimed at me.
I look at you young people and marvel. My Michael works tirelessly, spinning like a hamster in a wheel. And all for what? So theres prosperity in the house. So his wife lacks nothing.
She paused, letting the words sink into the guests ears.
And whats the return? Wheres the support? When I was his age, I worked, ran the home, and already had children. And now? They sit on mens necks and give nothing in return.
I set the plate before Uncle Victor. My hands trembled slightly, but I forced a smile. Michael met my gaze, a flicker of apology in his eyes, yet he stayed silentas always.
The evening trudged along the familiar path. Praise for Michael alternated with veiled rebukes toward me, thinly disguised as life lessons. I felt like a specimen in a glass case, everyone scrutinising and judging.
When dessert was announced, I slipped into the kitchen for the cake. Michael followed.
Emily, dont be upset, he murmured, closing the door. Mum is just well, shes so proud of me. That I saved her.
Im not upset, Mish. I understand everything.
But I no longer understood. This charade of the modest wife beside the hero husband was suffocating me.
My appdevelopment startup, which everyone dismissed as a cute hobby, earned three times more than his departmental manager salary. I insisted we keep my income hiddento avoid jealousy, to keep Michael comfortable.
He was comfortable. I was not.
I returned to the lounge with the cake. Margaret was busy complaining to a cousin about rising grocery prices.
and tell me, how is a young family supposed to save for all this? No way! Unless the husband has a brain on his shoulders. And if beside him theres not a helper but a hole in the budget, then its all lost.
I began slicing the cake.
A distant relative piped up:
Maggie, why isnt the family going to the seaside this year? Michael worked so hard.
Margaret pursed her lips and shot me a scorching glance, as if Id cancelled the trip.
Then, slowly and venomously, so everyone could hear, she said:
What sea? He needs rest from the eternal burden. Youre a burden, not a wife, she snapped across the table. You only know how to live off someone elses purse.
The knife in my hand froze. An awkward pause settled, broken only by Uncle Victor coughing into his fist. All eyes fell on me, waiting for a reactionan outburst, tears, a retort.
I slowly lowered the knife onto the plate, looked up at Margaret and smiledcold, empty, unflinching.
What slice for you, Margaret? With nuts or plain?
She blinked, clearly unprepared.
Without waiting for an answer, I cut the biggest, prettiest piece and placed it before her, then continued serving the cake to the others as if nothing had happened.
The evening wound down quickly. The guests, sensing the tension, slipped out one by one. In the car, Michael turned on a familiar song.
Emily, Mum went too far, it happens to everyone. You know her temper
I know, I replied flatly, watching the city lights blur past. My voice sounded foreign and lifeless.
She doesnt mean it. She just worries about me. That Ill get so tired.
Yes, sure, I nodded. Worries.
There was no anger or remorse in his tone, just tired irritation at having to act as buffer between two women again. He never grasped the insult; he only saw Margarets character trait.
The next few days passed in oppressive silence. We barely spoke.
I buried myself in work, signing a new contract with overseas investors. Michael drifted around the house like a shadow, offended by my silence.
Then the phone rang. Of course it was Margaret. Michael chatted with her in the kitchen for ages, then came into the room where I was typing.
Emily, heres the thing he began uncertainly.
I slipped off my glasses and looked at him.
Mums car is on its last legs. She almost had an accident todaybrakes failed.
I waited, expecting more.
So I thought we could help her. Buy a new one. Not the most expensive, of course, but reliable. So we dont have to worry.
He looked at me hopeful, the same hope hed shown when he asked me to help pay off her debts. He assumed Id agree.
We? I asked, closing the laptop slowly.
Yes, we. I cant manage alone, you know. But together
No, Michael, I said, loud enough for him to hear every word. We cant.
He froze.
What do you mean? Emily, thats my mum!
Shes your mum. Exactly. So youll buy her a car with your salary.
Michael stared at me as if Id spoken another language. Confusion mixed with anger flickered in his eyes.
Are you kidding? Because of what she said to you? Come on, Emily! I thought you were above that!
I am above that, Michael. So far above that I wont let anyone wipe their feet on me any morenot her, not you. The bank is closed. The Save the Family fund is finished.
He snatched his phone, stormed onto the balcony, gesturing wildly. I heard fragments: completely lost it!, over some nonsense!, yes, come, of course! I stayed still, waiting.
Margaret burst in forty minutes later, barging into the flat without knocking, ready for battle. Michael followed like a nervous squire.
Whats happening here? she demanded at the doorway. Emily, why are you pushing my son? Hes ill because of you!
I turned slowly.
Good afternoon, Margaret. Im not pushing anyone. I simply refused to buy you a new car.
What?! She glared at Michael, then at me. You refused to help the family? After everything my son does for you?
That was the moment. The stage was set, the main actors assembled.
And what exactly does your son do for me? I asked calmly, meeting her eyes. He didnt even cover your business debts for thirtythousand pounds last year.
Margarets mouth fell open. Michael turned ashen.
What are you talking about? What debts? Michael paid everything! He told me himself! He saved me!
Michael? I shifted my gaze to my husband, pressed against the wall. Michael, tell Mum where a department manager earning a hundredthousand pounds a year suddenly got thirtythousand? Did you rob a bank? Find a treasure?
He stayed silent, unable to meet my eyes.
Ill tell you where, I continued, voice gaining strength. That money is mine. Every penny.
Earned by my cute hobby, as you like to call it. My tech startup, which you dismiss as a trifle.
I paid for your mistakes to rescue your family from disgrace, and in return I was labelled a burden.
Margaret sank onto the hallway ottoman. The heroic mother mask slipped, revealing confusion and humiliation.
I went along with the lie for Michaels sake, to protect his pride. So he could remain your hero. I thought it was right. I was wrong.
I grabbed my laptop bag from the chair.
So, Margaret, your son will buy you a carif he can. Or you will. Learn to solve your problems without my wallet.
I headed for the door; Michael stepped toward me.
Emily wait
No, I halted at the threshold. Ive had enough. I was convenient for too long. Its time I look after myself.
And I left, closing the door behind me. I didnt know where I was going, but for the first time in ages I felt I was heading in the right direction.
Six months later I stood in my new flatbright, spacious, with floortoceiling windows overlooking the citys business district. Sunlight danced on the parquet, the air smelled of fresh paint and coffee. Every piece belonged to me: the minimalist sofa, the abstract painting Id won at my first auction.
After that, I booked a hotel room, then a week later signed the lease on the flat. The divorce was surprisingly smooth. Michael didnt argue; it was as if someone had taken the spine out of him. He was broken, not by my leaving, but by the exposure. His carefully crafted hero image crumbled to dust.
The phone on the kitchen island buzzed. A message from Michael. Hed been calling once a week, at first with angry tirades, then pitiful pleas, now something in between.
Emily, I understand everything. I was wrong. But maybe we can at least talk? Mum is very ill, she cries constantly. Her blood pressure is high. She blames herself, and me. We both feel terrible without you.
I set the phone aside without replying. I knew Margaret wasnt truly ill. Uncle Victor, the only relative who checked in after that night, occasionally reported on the situation.
Maggie didnt cryshe was angry. Angry at her son for failing her hopes, at me for airing the familys dirty laundry, at the whole world for being unfair to her.
They never bought her a car. Now they lived together in her flat, and according to Victor, the atmosphere was gloomy: constant reproaches, money fights, mutual accusations. The hero and his rescued mother turned out to be two miserable people unable to care for themselves, let alone each other.
He never grasped the main point. He wrote that they felt bad without me, but not because they missed me as a person. They missed my money, my support, that invisible force that kept their world afloat while they sang praises to themselves.
Meanwhile, my business took off. The foreign contract brought not only cash but also recognition in niche circles. I hired five more developers, moved into a sleek loft for the office. I worked hard, but the work now gave me joy, not dull irritation.
I no longer hid my successes, no longer pretended it was a cute hobby. I was the owner of a thriving company, and that was my greatest achievement.
Another call came, this time from my deputy.
Emily Clarke, the investors have confirmed a meeting in Shanghai in two weeks. They want to celebrate the launch in person. Should I book the tickets?
I looked out at the city below, at the clear, boundless sky.
Yes, Kirill, I replied, smiling. Book them. And reserve a hotel with a sea view. Its time I finally rested.
