Floors Dont Clean Themselves
Emma, while Williams at work, youre the one who should be keeping the house in order, remarked Margaret. The floors arent going to mop themselves, you know. And whos going to cook dinner? What are you sitting about for, waiting on someone?
I ran my hand over my heavily pregnant belly. Seven months gone, and twins. Every morning began with the effort it took simply to sit up in bed. My lower back ached so badly that all I wanted was to lie flat and avoid moving until the babies arrived.
Margaret, you can see the size of me. Im shuffling about the flat clinging to the walls, and youre on about dinner.
She waved a dismissive hand, as if Id just complained about a mild sniffle.
Oh, Emma, youre pregnant, not sick. When I was expecting William, I cooked, did the washing, and dug half the garden right up to the due date. But here you are, lolling about all day like Lady Muck. Youre just looking for sympathy so well all fuss over you.
She exited, leaving her mug unwashed and a sour weight in my stomach I just couldnt shake.
That evening, William came home at about nine, exhausted, dark rings under his eyes. I waited until hed eaten, then sat beside him.
William, we need to talk about your mum. Shes here every day, nagging me like Im back in school. I can barely walk and she expects me to scrub the floors and make stews. Please, can you speak to her?
William pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, making it clear hed prefer not to get involved.
Ill talk to her, Em. Promise.
Days passed, but nothing changed. Margaret still dropped by every other day, still ran her finger along every shelf searching for dust, still pointedly sighed over stray dishes in the sink.
Two months later, I gave birth. Two boys, both healthy and loud, clenching their pink fists. Max and Ben. The moment they were laid against my chest, the rest of the world simply faded away. I held my two tiny, wailing sons and sobbed with a happiness so huge it almost hurt to breathe. William darted into the hospital room, picked up Max with trembling hands as if he were made of the finest porcelain, and his mouth wobbled as he held back tears.
Em, theyre really ours
That week in the maternity ward existed in a soft, warm cocoon just the four of us. But then it was time to come home. William carried one baby, I nestled the other, nudged open the nursery door wed together painted a gentle sage, assembled the cots, hung the mobiles, tidied stacks of tiny sleepsuits and stopped, stunned.
One cot had a purple dressing gown laid neatly across it, initials embroidered on the chest. An open suitcase perched by the changing table. The second cot was shoved aside; in its place stood a folding camp chair with Margaret in her house dress, leafing through a magazine as if shed always been there.
Oh, youre back, she announced without blinking. Just settled myself in so I can help you out with the boys.
I stood in the doorway, clutching Max, unable to piece together what I was seeing. The suitcase. The gown. Her things on the shelves where the babygros had been. With such practiced confidence, she’d claimed their nursery as her own, as if it was her natural right.
William was shuffling awkwardly in the hallway with Ben and wouldnt meet my eye.
William whats going on?
Mum just said shed help out at the start he finally looked and then looked away at the coat stand. Theres two of them. Youll be on your own all day while Im at work. Itll be tough, wont it?
I shifted Max in my arms, shaking my head.
Ill manage. We agreed this, William. I can do this.
Margaret was suddenly at my back, somehow having slipped into the corridor behind us.
Dont be silly, Emma. Youve got two newborns. You can barely stand up after giving birth. Go and lie down, get some rest. Ill feed and settle the boys. Itll all be fine.
I wanted to protest, but the exhaustion from the birth and the journey home with two tiny babies hit me like a wave. I nodded, handed Max to her, and trudged off to bed, convincing myself it was just for a couple of days a brief spell of help couldnt hurt.
The first three days actually went alright. Margaret got up with the boys in the night, letting me sleep, cooked breakfast, quietly loaded the washer. I even thought Id misjudged her that grandmotherly instinct had kicked in and things might just settle. But as soon as William returned to work, the flat became an entirely different place.
Margaret stopped helping and started bossing. Id pick Ben up to feed him, and shed hover, tutting disapprovingly: “Youre not supporting his head, youre squashing him, let him breathe.” Id swaddle Max, and shed immediately unwrap him and redo it: “All wrong, hell end up twisted.” Id sit to catch my breath after feeding, and within five minutes Id hear from the kitchen: “Emma, the dishes wont wash themselves. You cant just sit about all day.”
It was relentless, dawn to dusk, not a moments peace. Id barely finish one thing before being scolded about the next. The boys were handed to me less and less shed whisk them away with, “Give him here, youre doing it all wrong,” until I was genuinely frightened to even reach for my own sons while she was near.
A week of that left me so depleted my knees trembled by nightfall, my mind scrambled from exhaustion and the endless stress. I waited until Margaret was asleep in the nursery, crept into the bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed beside William.
William, I cant do this anymore, I whispered, careful not to be overheard, the forced hush making my anger simmer all the hotter. Your mother isnt helping; shes running me ragged. I cant even feed our babies without her butting in. I cant sit for five minutes without being ordered to scrub something. I feel like a servant in my own home and a bad one at that.
He lay staring at the ceiling, silent.
Either she goes, I forced out what Id rehearsed for days, or I leave. Ill take the boys and go somewhere else.
William hauled himself up onto his elbow, staring as if Id suggested something unimaginable.
Em, hold on. Mum means well, shes just set in her ways. Cant you two talk it out, find some middle ground? After all, shes their grandma. Shes only worried about them.
I pressed my palms to my face, squeezing my eyelids tight, feeling my eyes burn, knowing that if the tears came now theyd never stop. All the frustration months in the making since my first Youre pretending and When I was your age I did more threatened to spill over.
William, its been a week since I could properly feed my own children, I dropped my hands, tears streaming down my face. I pick Ben up and she takes him away. I swaddle Max and she undoes everything. Im scared to go near my babies in my own house. I gave birth to them, William, but she treats me like a probationary nanny.
The door creaked behind us; Margaret stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, lips tight in her purple dressing gown.
I can hear everything, you know. These walls arent as thick as you think, she fixed me with a hard look and shook her head. You ought to be ashamed. Ive left my own house to help with the grandchildren, sleeping in a chair at sixty two, and here you are, throwing fits and turning my own son against me. Ungrateful, thats what you are.
Something shifted, right at that moment. William looked at his mother, then at me red-eyed, trembling, slumped on the edge of the bed in a messy top with a breastmilk stain on the shoulder and a flicker of understanding crossed his face. He finally saw what Id been telling him all along.
Mum, William said, sitting up, pack your things. Tomorrow morning, Ill drive you home.
Margaret froze in the doorway, her face falling as if hed just spoken another language.
Will, are you serious? Youre turning your own mother out for her?
I am, Mum. This is our home, our children, my wife. Well figure it out ourselves. Youre welcome when we ask for your help. But youre living at yours.
Margaret raged into the night. She packed with angry thuds, banged cupboard doors, twice stormed off to take a swig of rescue remedy in the kitchen, loudly lamenting her ungrateful son and the daughter-in-law who stole him away. I sat quietly in the bedroom feeding Max, listening through the wall, tears falling this time not from anger, but from a heavy, overwhelming relief.
In the morning, William loaded the suitcase, drove his mum home, and came back a couple of hours later. He walked straight into the nursery, scooped up Ben, whod just started fussing, and settled him gently on his shoulder.
Well manage, Em, he said, rocking our son. Just the two of us.
And so we did. It only took a few days for me to hit my stride, once nobody was standing over me, criticising every move. I fed the boys as they needed. Swaddled them as I saw fit. The flat stopped feeling like enemy territory, and started feeling like ours. William got up in the night whenever he could, never once complaining, and took the boys for long rambles in the pram at weekends so I could have a couple of hours peace. The peace in our little flat didnt come overnight, but with each new day, as I woke without dread and went straight to my sons, it grew a little stronger.
