Return the Key to Our Flat
“We’ve made up our minds,” said Philippa, gently placing her palm atop her son’s hand. “We’ll sell the cottage. We’ll give you forty thousand pounds for the deposit, and that’s enough of shuffling from one rented place to another.”
Andrew paused mid-sip, the mug halfway to his lips. His wife, Emily, stopped chewing, a piece of Victoria sponge lingering on her fork.
“Mum, what are you talking about?” Andrew carefully set down his mug. “The cottage? You spend every summer there…”
“We’ll survive. Richard, say something,” Philippa insisted.
Richard, who had been absent-mindedly stirring the marmalade, looked up.
“Your mum’s right. The roof leaks, fence’s rotten, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. And you two need somewhere proper to live.”
“Dad, we’ll save up ourselves,” Andrew shook his head. “Another year or two, maybe three…”
“Three years!” Philippa threw up her hands. “Three years dragging yourselves and the baby from one flat to the next? Emily, don’t you agree?”
Emily looked lost between her husband and mother-in-law.
“Mrs. Dawson, that’s a huge amount of money. We cant just take…”
“You can, and you will,” Philippa cut in. “It’s settled. Weve already spoken with the estate agentviewings start Saturday.”
Andrew opened his mouth, but Philippa didnt wait.
“Son, were not getting any younger. Your dads fighting high blood pressure, Ill be sixty next year. Whats the use of the cottage now? Planting tomatoes? I can buy them at the market. Id rather the grandchildren grow up in a proper flat. Their own home, you understand?”
Silence weighed the room. Emily squeezed Andrews hand beneath the table. Andrew rubbed the bridge of his nosethe gesture of someone without answers.
“Mum… we’ll pay it back, every penny. Bit by bit, well return it all.”
“Don’t fuss,” Richard waved it off. “Pay it back or don’t, as long as the kids have somewhere safe to roll about.”
Six weeks later, the cottage was sold. Philippa handled every detail: paperwork, counting cash, transferring forty thousand pounds to Andrew. Three months after that, Andrew and Emily moved into a two-bedroom flat on Lilac Avenuebrand new, ninth floor, overlooking the park.
For the housewarming, fifteen crammed in. Emilys folks brought dishes, her friends loaded them with towels, Andrews colleagues pooled for a coffee machine. Philippa wandered from room to room, fingers trailing on the walls, opening cupboards, noddingwhether approvingly or critically was anyones guess.
Toward evening, as guests drifted through the flat, Philippa caught hold of Andrew in the hallway.
“Andy, a quick word, please.”
She drew him towards the entryway, somewhere private.
“Pass me the key.”
Andrew blinked.
“The key?”
“For the flat. Spare one. Just in case,” Philippa whispered. “You know we helped you, so in an emergency… besides, its perfectly normal for parents to have a copy.”
Andrew shuffled, visibly torn between protest and compliance.
“Mum, its a bit… Emily”
“What about Emily? She doesnt agree?” Philippas eyes narrowed. “We bought the place, and she objects to giving us a key?”
“No, its not that I”
“Well then, give it here. Stop dithering.”
Andrew dug in his jeans pocket, unwound a ring of keys, detached oneshiny, new.
“There.”
Philippa twirled it in her fingers, slipped it onto her own keychain, nestling it between house and garage keys. The sound of metal on metal.
“Good lad,” she patted his cheek. “Come onlets have some cake before its all gone.”
The evening went smoothly.
…Philippa inspected fabric, turning a cushion over and over, checking seams. The mustard velvet purred beneath her fingers, warm and inviting, matching Emilys slate sofa perfectly. She took another in terracotta. She could already picture them: one at each corner, with that knitted throw shed been eyeing last week.
On the bus, Philippa hugged the shopping bag to her chest. Estates, playgrounds, cars whizzed by the windows. Lilac Avenue, her stop.
The entry smelled of new paintrecent renovations. She climbed up to the ninth floor, fished out the keys, found the right one. The lock gave way, the door swung easily.
Silence.
Philippa slipped off her shoes, walked into the lounge. As expected: the sofa, bare and dull. She tumbled out the cushions, placed them at each end, stepped back to survey. Much better. The room transformed.
Except dust taunted her from the shelf. And a mug, crude with old tea, perched on the windowsill. Philippa shook her headbest not to touch, not her place. Not yet, anyway.
That night, the phone rang at nine.
“Mum, did you come by?”
Andrews voice was strained, oddly taut.
“Of course. Dropped off the cushionsdid you see? Lovely, arent they?”
“Mum…” a pause. “You could’ve warned us. Emily walked in and things were moved, cushions… new stuff…”
“New?” Philippa snorted. “Those cost seventy-five quid each! And tell your Emily, its rather grubby in there. Dust everywhere, dirty mugs. And half your fridge is emptyyou lot starving? I didnt give you money for you to live like students.”
“Mum, just let us know next time, alright? Ring us first…”
“Oh Andy,” Philippa rolled her eyes (not that Andrew could see). “Well, I must dashyour fathers calling.”
She hung up, not waiting for a reply.
A week later, Philippa dropped off a set of fine cotton sheetsgood ones, thick sateen. Emily was home but in the shower; Philippa heard water running. She left the package on the bed, departed quietly. No note. No needtheyd understand.
Three days after thata set of saucepans. The old ones were some dreadful cheap brand, all scratched and battered, enough to turn your stomach.
That Saturday, Andrew and Emily came for dinner. They sat around the table, poking at steak-and-kidney pie, discussing weather and the neighbours new conservatory. Everything polite, proper, flavourless.
Emily set down her fork.
“Mrs Dawson…”
“Hmm?”
“Would you mind…” Emily faltered, glancing at Andrew. “Could you ring before you come over? Just so we know?
Philippa daintily dabbed her mouth with a napkin.
“Emmy. We gave you forty thousand pounds. Forty thousand. I have every right to come by as I please. Its our flat too, in a way.”
“Mum,” Andrew tried to interject.
“What, Andy? Am I wrong?”
Silence. Richard focused intently on his pie, exuding detachment.
“Thank you for dinner,” Emily stood. “Andy, we should go.”
They left briskly, hurried. Their smiles at the door stiff and crooked. Philippa watched them go, then returned to the kitchen to clear away. Something nudged her towards the windowjust as the young couple exited the block.
The window was ajar. Emilys voice drifted up, sharp and clear:
“…either we pay off this debt, or we split up. I can’t live like this anymore.”
Philippa froze, clutching a plate.
What debt? What was she on about?
Andrew replied, his words indistinct. The car door slammed, engine growled.
Philippa placed the plate in the sink, slowly.
No. She didnt like this at all.
…Philippa turned the key in the lock, pushed the dooralmost bumping into Andrew. He stood in the hallway, waiting. Emily popped out of the kitchen, towel in hand.
“Oh, youre home,” Philippa faltered for a moment, but reassembled swiftly. “Ive brought you”
“Mum, hang on.”
Something in Andrews voice silenced her. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat hanging on a hook, produced a thick, white envelope.
“I want to return something to you.”
Philippa took it automatically. She peeked insideher knees almost buckled.
Money. A serious stack.
“This… what is it?”
“Forty thousand,” Emily stepped forward to stand by Andrew. “We took out a loan.”
“You… youve lost your minds. What loan? Why?”
“Because we don’t want to be beholden,” Emilys gaze was steady, her tone icy. “Mrs Dawson, were exhausted. By the visits. The constant checking. You coming round unannounced, rummaging through our home.”
“I wasnt rummaging! I bring cushions! Sheets! Saucepans!”
“Mum,” Andrew placed a comforting hand on Emilys shoulder. “We’re changing the locks. Tomorrow, the locksmiths coming.”
Philippa blinked, struggling to process.
“The locks?”
“Yes. You wont have a key anymore.”
A muggy, suffocating silence pressed on them. Philippa stared from son to daughter-in-law, cheeks aflame.
“You… youre so petty. So ungrateful. We sold our cottage for you! And now Im treated like a thief in your home!”
“Were not throwing you out,” Emilys voice was unwavering. “Were just asking you to leave.”
Philippa squeezed her keychain tight in her pocket, her fingers numb.
“Andy, darling. Are you really going to let her speak to me like that?”
Andrew lowered his head, hesitated. Finally, he met his mothers eyes.
“Mum. We discussed this together. It’s what we want.”
Philippa spun on her heel and left without saying goodbye.
All the way home, Philippa rehearsed what shed say when Andrew called to apologise. Tomorrow, maybe the day after. Hed come to his senses, realise hed overreacted.
A week passed. The phone stayed silent.
Philippa picked it up several times, almost dialling, but always set it down. Nolet them come first. Let them ask forgiveness themselves. She was a mothershe meant no harm.
A month later, Richard asked quietly over dinner if theyd made peace yet. Philippa only shrugged and changed the subject.
After two months, she ceased flinching at every ring.
Three months onunderstanding finally dawned.
Andrew would never ring. Not tomorrow, not next week, not next year.
Philippa sat in her kitchen, gazing at her keys: house, garage, and in between, one that once opened the door to Lilac Avenue.
She only wanted to help. She truly did. Cushions, saucepans, sheetsit was all care, wasnt it? Parents help; children are grateful; everyones happy.
But somewhere, something broke. And Philippa, sifting memories of talks and visits, could never pinpoint when.
Maybe she didnt want to.
To repair it nowtoo late.
