Floors Wont Clean Themselves
Emma, while James is at work, its up to you to look after the house, remarked Mrs. Margaret Clarke. The floors wont clean themselves. And whos going to get dinner ready? Why are you just sitting therewhat are you waiting for?
Emma slid her palm over her enormous bump. Seven months along, twins, and every morning was a challenge just to sit up in bed. Her back ached so fiercely she often wanted to simply lie still until the babies arrived.
Mrs. Clarke, surely you can see how big I am. I can barely move from room to room without holding onto the walls, and you want to talk about dinner.
Her mother-in-law waved her off as if Emma was complaining about a touch of hay fever.
Heavens, Emma, youre pregnantnot unwell. When I was carrying James, I cooked, did the laundry, and even dug up half the garden until the day he was born. But you, you just lie around all day as if youre Lady Muck. You put it on, Emma, thats all; want everyone to fuss over you.
She left, abandoning her dirty mug and leaving behind a heavy, sour taste Emma couldnt swallow down.
That evening, James returned around nine, looking worn out, shadowed eyes belying his exhaustion. Emma waited until hed eaten, then sat beside him.
James, we need to talk about your mum. She comes by every day and scolds me as if I were a naughty schoolgirl. I can hardly walk, but she expects me to scrub the floors and whip up stews. Could you have a word with her, please?
James pinched his nose and sighed, but she could see he had no desire to get involved.
All right, Em. Ill talk to her. Promise.
Days slipped by, but nothing changed. Mrs. Clarke kept stopping by, running her finger along the shelves for dust, sighing pointedly over an unwashed plate in the sink.
Two months later, Emma gave birth. Two little boys, both healthy and loud, with sturdy pink fists. George and Harry. The moment they were placed on her chest, the world melted away. Emma held the tiny, squalling boys to her, overwhelmed by a happiness so huge she could hardly breathe. James rushed into the ward, cradled George as if he was spun from porcelain, and she saw his lips tremble.
Em, these are our lads
A week in hospital passed in a gentle, golden haze, just the four of them in their cocoon. Then Emma came home. James carried one baby; she held the other. She pushed open the door to the nursery they’d painted mint together, where cots were assembled, mobiles hung from the ceiling, and stacks of tiny sleepsuits were neatly organised. But she stopped dead in the doorway.
On one cot lay a purple dressing gown, embroidered with initials. By the changing table stood an open suitcase. The second cot was shoved to the sideits place now occupied by a folding armchair, in which Mrs. Clarke sat reading a magazine in her house dress.
Oh, youre back, said her mother-in-law calmly. I made myself at home so I can help with the boys.
Emma stood in the doorway, clutching George, her mind whirling. A suitcase. Dressing gown. Someone elses things tidied onto the shelves that, a week ago, were filled with baby blankets. Her mother-in-law had taken over the nursery as if she had every right.
Emma slowly turned to James, who hovered in the hallway with Harry and avoided her gaze.
James, whats going on?
Em, Mum said shed help out for a bit. There are two of them, after all. Youre alone here during the day, and Ive got work. Itll be tough, wont it?
Emma hugged George more tightly and shook her head.
I can cope. We talked about this, James. I can manage.
But Mrs. Clarke was already behind her, having slipped out of the chair, standing in the corridor.
Dont be foolish, Emma. Youve got two newborns and youre still weak from labour. Go and restIll feed the boys and settle them. Itll all be fine.
Emma wanted to argue, but exhaustion pressed down on her so hard she had no strength left for a fightlabour, the journey home, and now two little ones. She nodded, handed George over, and went to the bedroom, telling herself it was just for a few days, that a bit of help couldnt hurt.
The first three days actually went well. Mrs. Clarke got up with the boys at night, let Emma sleep, made breakfast and quietly put the laundry on. Emma almost convinced herself shed been wrong about her. Maybe the grandmotherly instinct would make things easier.
But when James went back to work, the flat turned into something else entirely.
Mrs. Clarke stopped helping and started commanding. Whenever Emma tried to feed Harry, her mother-in-law was right there, clicking her tongue: Youre not holding him rightsupport his head. Dont fussgive him space to breathe. Emma would wrap George, and Mrs. Clarke would redo it: Hell get crooked that way! If Emma tried to sit down after feeding, within five minutes from the kitchen: Emma, the dishes wont wash themselves. No use sitting about.
Day in, day out, from morning till night, without a break. Emma would barely finish one task before being scolded for another. Mrs. Clarke allowed her near the boys less and less, taking them with a Give him here, youre doing it wrong again, until Emma started to dread picking up her own sons while her mother-in-law was there.
After a week, Emma was so worn out her knees shook each evening, her mind fogged with exhaustion and endless tension. One night, after Mrs. Clarke fell asleep in the nursery, Emma shut herself in the bedroom and sat on the bed next to James.
James, I cant go on. Your mother isnt helpingshes wearing me down. I cant feed my own children without her telling me what I should be doing. I cant even sit down for five minutes before she has me scrubbing the floors. I feel like a servant in my own home, and whatever I do is wrong.
James lay staring at the ceiling, silent.
Either she goes, Emma swallowed, finally saying what had turned over in her mind for days, or Ill take the boys and leave.
James propped himself up on one elbow, staring like shed just suggested something unthinkable.
Em, come on. Mum means well, she just grew up differently. Maybe you could talk things through, make peace? She is their grandmothershe only wants the best for them.
Emma pressed her palms to her face, squeezing her eyelids as hot tears pricked. It had been piling up for months, from all those putting it on and at your age I did so much more, and now she could hardly keep it inside.
James, I havent been able to feed our own children normally for a week. I pick up Harry and she takes him away. I wrap George and she unwraps and does it herself. Im scared to go near my sons in my own housedo you realise that? I gave birth to them, James, and she treats me like a temp nanny who cant do anything right.
Just then, the bedroom door creaked open, and in stepped Mrs. Clarke in her purple dressing gown, arms folded, lips pressed thin.
I can hear everything, you know. Walls are thin, she said, fixing Emma with a cold stare. You should be ashamed. I left my own home, came here to help with the babies, sleep on a chair at sixty-two, and all you do is throw tantrums and turn my own son against his mother. Youre just ungrateful, thats what you are.
And in that instant, something changed. Emma watched James look from his mother to Emmawho was crying, lips trembling, still in her crumpled t-shirt with a milk stain on the shoulderand saw something soften in his expression. At last, he saw what Emma had been trying to explain for so long.
Mum, James said, sitting up, pack your things. Tomorrow morning Ill take you home.
Mrs. Clarke froze in the doorway, looking like James was talking Swahili.
James, are you serious? Youre sending your own mother away for her?
Mum, I mean it, said James. This is our home, our children, my wife, and well manage. You can help when we ask, but youll be staying at yours.
Mrs. Clarke carried on all nightpacked her suitcase with a lot of slamming, banged cupboard doors, made two trips to the kitchen for valerian and complained about ungrateful sons and wicked daughters-in-law. Emma sat in the bedroom, feeding George and listening through the thin wall, tears falling now from relief rather than anger.
The next morning, James loaded Mrs. Clarkes case into the car, took her home, and returned two hours later. Quietly, he walked to the nursery, picked up Harrywho had just begun to fussand settled him on his shoulder.
Well manage, Em, he said, rocking his son gently. Well manage together.
And they did. Once there was no one breathing down her neck or criticising every move, Emma found her rhythm in days. She fed the boys when they needed, wrapped them the way she liked, and the flat no longer felt like borrowed ground. James got up for the babies half the night without complaint, and at weekends he took the pram with both boys out for long walks, giving Emma a couple of hours of much-needed peace. Their little home didnt regain its calm overnight, but each new day that Emma woke and could simply go to her sons without fear, it grew a bit stronger.
Sometimes, defending your space and voice is the only way to make room for happiness. A family flourishes where everyones boundaries are respecteda lesson worth holding onto, in any home.
