Default Separation
“Everythings going to be all right,” William whispered, the nerves fluttering in his belly as he pressed their doorbell. He tried to pitch his voice confidently, though his hands felt clammy. This was always going to be an ordealmeeting the parents never was anything but daunting.
The door was pulled open almost instantly. There stood Mrs. Catherine Farrow, elegant and poised. Her hair was swept into a flawless chignon, and her navy dress sat in crisp lines along her figure. A hint of lipstick, a polish that was unmistakable: she had prepared for this meeting, perhaps far more than William had hoped. Catherine’s assessing gaze slid from Abigail to the basket she was clutching, her lips tightening ever so slightlya flicker, almost unnoticeable, but Abigail caught it.
“Come on in,” Mrs. Farrow said, her voice devoid of warmth, moving aside in a gesture that was more duty than invitation.
William stepped into the hallway, eyes cast down, and Abigail followed, stepping carefully over the threshold. The house greeted them with the low glow of lamps and the faint scent of sandalwood. Everything was perfectly in order: no stray magazines, no shoes tossed in the corner, not a scarf abandoned on the bannister. Each thing in its place, each detail silently screaming of control.
Catherine led them into the lounge, a generous room made more sombre by the heavy, cream curtains drawn over the window. In the centre, a broad settee upholstered in expensive damask faced a polished mahogany coffee table. She gestured for them to settle on the sofa.
“Would you like some tea? Coffee?” Her gaze remained fixed on a spot above Abigails head, each word delivered with practiced detachmenta hosting ritual that was more armour than welcome.
“Tea would be lovely, thank you,” Abigail replied softly, her voice steady and polite. She set the basket on the table, undid the ribbon, and gently lifted the lid. Freshly baked biscuits spilled their warmth and sweetness into the air. “I brought some biscuitshomemade. If youd like to try them.”
For a moment, Catherine gave the basket a hard look, then nodded crisply. “Thank you. I’ll go and get the tea.”
As she disappeared into the kitchen, William leaned in, whispering, “Sorry. Shes always restrained.”
Abigail squeezed his hand. “Dont worry. I was prepared for this. The main thing is, youre here with me.”
The hush stretched out as Catherine busied herself in the kitchen. Abigail glanced around. The furniture gleamed with polish; the cushions were just soeverything immaculate but uninviting, as though theyd accidentally wandered into a carefully staged showroom rather than a home.
Soon, Catherine returned carrying a lacquered tray: delicate china cups adorned with pink roses, a squat silver teapot, and a matching plate where the biscuits were arranged in a neat circle. She placed everything on the table, poured the Earl Grey with slow, measured movements, and perched herself opposite them, ankles neatly crossed.
“So, Abigail,” she began, her eyes trailing from Abigails face to her hands, noting every nervous gesture, every detail. “William mentioned youre studying, isnt that right? Early education?”
“Yes, Im in my third year,” Abigail answered, striving for composure as she set her cup down so her hands wouldnt betray a tremble. “I love working with children. It feels worthwhilewatching them grow, helping them discover the world.”
“With children, yes,” Catherine repeated, with a barely disguised smirk. One eyebrow quirked upward. “Its very noble, of course. But you do realisenursery teachers arent paid much at all? One must think about the futureabout stability.”
“Mum, can we not do this now?” William cut in, more sharply than intended, then tried to soften. “Abby loves what she does, and that should count for something. Moneys not everything. Well make things work outwell support each other, thats the main thing.”
Mrs. Farrow turned her head ever so slightly toward her son, but didnt reply at once. She sipped her tea, her words measured with each pause.
“Passion for your work is wonderful,” she finally said, looking back at Abigail. “But the reality is, love is rarely enough. Do you know yet where youll work after university? Any concrete plans for the next few years?”
Abigail drew a steadying breath. She understood that this was more than idle curiosity; it was a gate to be passed, a test.
“Ive thought about it,” she replied. “I’ll start in a local nursery, to gain experience. Eventually, Id like to take further training. I want to specialise in inclusive educationhelping children with special needs. Its not easy work, but its what I feel called to do.”
Mrs. Farrow nodded, her expression unreadable. She watched Abigail, unhurried and contemplative, as if scanning for hidden intent.
“I have no interest in being Williams burden,” Abigail added, her chin a little higher. “Im working towards independence. I want to contribute to our future, and not just financially. For me, meaning isnt about the paychequeit’s about doing what matters.”
“An interesting viewpoint,” Catherine responded, tilting her head. “Have you never considered a position with better prospects? With your background, you could do wellsay, in sales or marketing. Youd have a much higher salary there than as a nursery worker.”
William started to interject, but Abigail gave him a slight shake of her head. She felt this moment was hers to defend.
“And what do you do for a living, Mrs. Farrow?” she asked before she could talk herself out of it, eyes fixed boldly on her hostess.
It came out more confidently than shed anticipated. Even she was surprised by her own nerve.
Catherine looked briefly startled, as though caught off guard, but quickly recovered. “I I dont, actually,” she admitted, after a beat. “My husband provides for us. I keep the house, manage things for himits work of its own, though unappreciated by most.”
“I see,” Abigail replied, feeling her resolve crystallise. “So if you chose not to work, why must I find a richer job just for the money? Why insist I abandon what I love? I never asked William for support.”
The silence that followed was charged. Catherine met Abigails gaze with a new, scrutinising light.
“My husband chose that for me. He could afford to. William”
William shifted, discomfort squirming through him. His expression was caught between shame and apology as his mothers words pulled an old bitterness to the surface.
“Abby, you know” he began, hesitance strangling his voice. “Mums just worried. She wants the best for us. She doesnt want us to struggle.”
Abigails eyes widened. A dull, cold ache pressed inhurt that he would falter here, when she needed his solidarity more than ever.
“So, you agree?” Her tone was almost steady. “Are you telling me I shouldnt do what makes me happy? That I should force myself into something joyless just for the money?”
“Its I mean, not exactly,” William fumbled for words, wringing his hands. “But stability is important. We cant just go along, hoping for the best. We need to be realistic about bills, rent, all the rest”
Catherine bestowed her son the briefest look of approval, then turned back to Abigail, her tone softer but still unyielding.
“Tell medo you imagine William putting his own ambitions aside for you? He always dreamed of being a journalisttravelling, writing. You expect him to give all that up just to support a family alone?”
Abigail opened her mouth to reply, but William cut in: “Mum, I”
“No, William. Tell us honestly,” Catherine interrupted, her words sharp as glass. “Would you give up everything you hoped for, just to keep Abby by your side? Are you willing to abandon your travels, the work you love, for a predictable salary?”
William froze, torn by a battle raging across his features. He glanced at Abigail, her eyes shining with hurt, and she kept silent, offering him a chance to speak for both of them. His shoulders slumped beneath a weight he had never managed to shake.
“I I dont want to give up on my dream. But I dont want to lose Abby either. Maybe theres a waywe can both make some sacrifices, keep pursuing what we love, just not quite as we imagined and support each other.”
Catherine drew in a breath and finally sank back, as if relinquishing the fightfor now. The confrontation had run its course; now she watched and waited to see how her words would shape what came next.
“Interesting how you frame it,” Abigail said, a tired, bitter laugh on her lips. “William doesnt have to give up his dreams, but Im supposed to drift into something better paid so he can keep chasing them? It doesnt sound very fair, does it?”
William dropped his gaze, white-knuckled around his fragile cup. The answer, the solution, hovered out of reach.
“Well maybe we could find a compromise somehow,” he muttered, but even he didnt sound convinced.
“Compromise?” Cathy echoed, a glint in her eye. “You both know how life works. You either give yourself to a professionfullyor you dont. Theres no halfway, not really.”
A silence stretched between them, full to bursting with unsaid things. William felt six years old again, shrinking beneath his mothers certainty.
“I think thats quite enough for this evening,” Catherine concluded, rising with practiced elegance. “Its getting dark, and this area isnt the safest after dusk. You should head home, Abigail. William, we need to have a serious talknow.”
Her tone brooked no dispute.
“Mum, maybe I could walk Abby at least to the corner?” William offered, weakly.
“No, you absolutely wont,” Catherine snapped, not even looking back at him. “Ill worry. Stay.”
William deflated. His protests dried on his lips. The finality in his mothers voice was ironclad.
“Sorry, Abby,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. “Its probably best. Please just call a taxi?”
Abigail nodded, keeping her composure. With painstaking calm she placed her cup back, gathered her bag, and stood.
“All right,” she said, the quiet only just masking her hurt. “Ill go.”
She straightened her jumper, as if the small act could help restore her dignity. The smile she wore now felt forced and out of placeshe didnt bother with it.
“Thank you for the tea,” she added, with a formality that carried a frosty edge she no longer cared to hide.
“Goodbye,” Catherine replied tersely, eyes fixed somewhere beyond Abigail.
Abigail moved to the door, her movements measured, each step echoing the tension still thick in the house. She paused at the door, glancing back: William was huddled on the sofa, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands slack on his knees. He didnt look up. He didnt call out. His silence was more eloquent than any send-offAbigail understood then that hed already made his choice.
She stepped into the chilled evening air. The breeze washed over her face, loosening some of the pain trapped inside but not powerful enough to dispel her grief. Furious and wounded, Abigail trudged along the pavement, her thoughts racing, repeating over and over: “He didnt stand up for me. Didnt tell his mother he respected my choices. Pleasing her matters more than being here for me.” Her fists clenched in the pockets of her jacket, her steps quickened with every stride. She wanted to scream, but all she could do was press her lips together to keep the tears in.
By the time she reached her flat, dusk had fallen. Streetlights threw pale reflections onto the damp roadsthe kind of gloom that followed rain. She let herself in, locked the door, kicked off her shoes, and sank down onto the hallway pouffe. The silence of her own home was gentle, tender even; here she didnt need to keep up appearances. Here, at last, she could breathe.
She stared ahead, letting her thoughts settle like silt. Slowly, the storm inside her began to abate. No, this wasnt the end of the world. Perhaps it was an ending shed needed. Abigail inhaled deeply, then let it go. Tomorrow was another day, and where there was a new dawn, there was new hope. She would be all right.
***
The next day, Abigail ignored Williams calls. Her mobile vibrated insistently in her pocket but, each time, she simply glanced at the screen and put it away. She needed timea little room to sort her thoughts, to ask herself what she truly wanted. One notion repeated, circling: if they stayed together, shed always be competing with his mum, and William would never fully choose her. Everything would pass through Catherines filter; Abigail could feel the slow chill of that future seeping in.
For several days, Abigail kept busyclasses, coursework, friendsbut it was all on autopilot. Every so often her mind wandered back to that heavy silence, his slumped figure, the way his voice had folded under his mothers. She tried not to think about William, but the images slipped through when she least expected.
A few days later, on her way home from university, Abigail spotted a familiar figure waiting by her block entrance. She almost hurried past, but then heard:
“Abby!”
She turned. William stood, hands shoved deep into his pockets, scuffing the pavement with his shoe. His posture was small; the conviction shed once seen in him was gone. He shuffled forward, as if fearing shed walk past without hearing him out.
“We have to talk,” he began, eyes somewhere to her left. “Mum well, she feels youre not the right one for me.”
Abigail arched an eyebrow, the muscles in her jaw tensing. She kept her voice even. “And what do you think?”
William hesitated, glancing up, then back down, as though the words couldnt find their way.
“Shes my mum,” he said finally, a helpless shrug. “She worries. I cant upset her.”
He sounded so lost, so boyishmore an excuse than an answer. Abigail watched him, realising she no longer even wanted to puzzle him out.
“So, you agree?” she asked. But she already knew.
“Im not saying I do,” he hurried to protest. “But shes my family. I cant justjust turn my back on her.”
He trailed off, as if hoping shed supply the ending, fix it for both of them. Abigail waited. The same thought echoed in her: “This will never change. Hell never stop deferring to his mum. Ill always be second.”
“Do you want to be with me?” she asked, straight, clear, weary.
Williams mouth openednothing came out. He let his shoulders drop, refusing to answer, and in that moment, Abigail understood.
She nodded, quietly, as if confirming a private resolution. She didnt ask for more, didnt demand apologies. She simply turned away, walking through the doors and shutting them behind her.
William stood, unmoving on the street, a strange emptiness enveloping him. He wanted to call after her, but the words wouldnt rise.
That evening, Abigail stepped out for a walk beneath the blank watch of the streetlights. The air was tinged with the must of autumndamp leaves, distant rain, something sharp and liberating. She walked aimlessly, letting her feet guide her, until suddenly, she found herself laughinglight and free, as though her body had exhaled some long-held grief.
Under the glow of city lights, she let herself stop, grinning at nothing in particular, finally grasping the truth: there would be troubles ahead, but she was ready. She wouldnt twist herself for someone elses expectations. She wouldnt beg to be valued. She was free. And that was all that mattered.
