“What on earth is this?!” cried Emily, unable to hide her frustration as she stood in the middle of the living room.
Her voice trembled with indignation. She scanned the room as though hoping the answer might be hidden among the furniture or walls.
“Again?! The third time this month! How much more of this can I take?”
On the sofa, lounging against the cushions, sat James. A phone in one hand, the TV remote in the other. He slowly turned his gaze toward his wife, but his eyes remained indifferent—just as they always did when it came to his mother.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t start another drama. I just got home. I want to relax.”
“Drama?” Emily took a step forward, her voice rising. “Is that what you call it? Five hundred pounds! Just like that! No explanation, no questions! You didn’t even ask what she needed it for—you just sent it!”
James set his phone aside with a quiet sigh. His face showed more exhaustion than surprise.
“So what? She’s my mum. If she needs money, I help her. What’s the problem?”
Emily moved closer, her cheeks burning.
“The problem is we’re saving for the cottage! We agreed! Every penny was supposed to go toward our shared dream! And yet, every month, money just vanishes somewhere! First it’s her prescriptions, then ‘unexpected expenses’—maybe she fancied a new iPhone this time?”
James sighed again, rubbing his forehead.
“She’s getting older, Em. It’s hard for her to manage alone. Sometimes it’s easier to help than to argue.”
“Older? She’s only sixty-five! She’s more active than you are! Theatre trips, garden clubs, holidays—while we haven’t had a proper holiday in years!”
“Emily!” His voice sharpened for the first time. “Don’t talk about my mum like that. She raised me.”
“She raised *you*, James. Not me. And yes, I’m grateful for that. But it doesn’t give her the right to constantly demand money! We live on one salary now—my freelance work isn’t steady. You *know* this.”
And he did. After the marketing agency where Emily had worked as creative director shut down, she’d gone freelance. Work was there, but income fluctuated. Their budget was fragile as glass—every careless expense a crack in it.
They dreamed of a cottage. For three years, the fantasy had lived inside them—a little place in the countryside, a terrace with climbing roses, barbecues with friends, cosy evenings by the fire. But every time their savings neared the goal, something happened: his mother’s home repairs, dental bills, new wallpaper, appliances… And back they’d slide.
“I’m just tired,” Emily murmured, walking to the window. “Tired of coming second. Tired of scrimping while your mum lives comfortably.”
James approached but didn’t embrace her.
“She’s not well, Em. She needs help.”
“Not well with what? A craving for luxury? Have you ever checked where that money goes? She’s off to Spain, buying handbags, dining out—while we haven’t had a holiday in ten years!”
“Enough,” he said flatly, his voice cooling again. “I don’t want to argue.”
“Of course you don’t!” Emily spun toward him. “You *never* want to talk when it’s about your mother. To you, she’s a saint, and *I’m* the villain. But I don’t wish her harm—I just want fairness! And *our* cottage!”
James fell silent. His shoulders tensed, gaze dropping to the floor. Emily knew that look. He wouldn’t argue. He’d just wait, like always. In a few hours, he’d leave as if nothing happened.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m going to bed.”
And he walked away, leaving her alone.
Emily stayed by the window, watching the dark sky. Stars blinked cold and indifferent. She knew: nothing would change until James chose. He was too used to being a son to be a husband—too devoted to his mother to hear his wife.
***
Morning brought coffee, a run, and the same heavy weariness. Emily stepped outside, hoping the exercise would clear her head. Some days she ran to forget. Today, she ran to understand.
When she returned, James was already leaving for work. His expression had softened slightly—but not enough.
“Listen, Em,” he began, adjusting his tie, “I’ll talk to Mum. I promise.”
Emily studied him.
“And what exactly will you say? Ask her to spend less of *our* money? You know she’ll justify it better than any politician.”
“I’ll try,” he said, still avoiding her eyes. “Maybe this time it’s important. I didn’t ask.”
“Right. It’s always important. Especially when it’s *her* wants.” She sighed, the familiar exhaustion swelling inside.
“Look, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk tonight.” He kissed her forehead quickly and left.
Silence settled over the flat, thick and suffocating.
***
They’d met at a mutual friend’s party. Back then, everything was different. James had been attentive, confident, softly romantic. Emily had been full of ideas, energy, faith in love. They’d fit together like day and night.
She’d met Margaret before the wedding. His mother was sharp, clever, with a voice that could silence a room in a syllable.
“I hope you’ll make my son happy,” she’d said, scrutinising Emily. “He’s special to me.”
At the time, Emily thought it was just motherly concern. Now she knew—it had been a warning.
After the wedding, they’d moved into their own flat. Margaret had stayed alone. And with each month, her calls grew more frequent. At first, helping seemed natural. Then it became an obligation.
Once, while visiting, Emily overheard Margaret boasting to a neighbour about the new washing machine James had bought her.
“The old one was noisy,” she’d said smugly. “My James insisted on upgrading it.”
Emily had clenched inside. The old one had worked fine. Margaret just *wanted* something new. And James, of course, had obliged.
That was when Emily realised: his mother wasn’t just asking for help—she was controlling him.
So they’d planned in secret. No sharing their savings goals. Quietly, steadily, they’d saved for a house. And when they finally had enough for a mortgage, they’d moved quickly—no fanfare, just keys and hope.
But Margaret had shown up to the housewarming anyway. Her first words:
“You could’ve told me, James. I’d have helped.”
“We managed, Mum,” he’d replied.
Margaret had smiled, but something flickered in her eyes—something like resentment. Or the sting of lost control.
Their flat was cosy but too small for Emily’s spirit. She loved light, space—things their square footage couldn’t give. Over time, she realised she needed *more*. Not just to live, but to *breathe*. To see trees, not concrete. The dream of a cottage had started quietly, then grown until it was all she could think of. A little house in the woods, morning coffee on the terrace, the scent of rain on soil. It kept her going when saving felt impossible.
James, seeing her need, agreed. He’d always been like that—supportive, especially of her happiness. So they’d started saving again. But soon, their budget began “leaking”—through the same crack: Margaret.
A week after the latest argument over another transfer, Emily was working at her desk when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, perfectly dressed, leather handbag in tow—and a smile that set Emily on edge.
“Hello, dear! James mentioned you’d be home. Thought I’d pop by for tea.”
Emily stiffened. Margaret *never* visited without an agenda.
“Come in, Margaret. Of course.”
Margaret stepped inside, scanning the room like an inspector.
“How lovely! So tidy. You’re such a good homemaker, dear.”
Emily forced a smile.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, nothing much.” Margaret set her bag down, pulling out a container. “Just wanted to see you. Made some scones—help yourself.”
They sat at the kitchen table. The tea was poured, but the mood was anything but warm.
“Emily,” Margaret began, lowering her voice, “I’ve been thinking… James works so hard. And I’m alone so often. It gets lonely.”
Emily eyed her warily.
“And how do you manage?”
“Well…” Margaret paused for effect. “My friend Judith has a lovely holiday home. Peaceful, fresh air. Got me thinking—it’d be wonderful if you had a cottage too.”
Emily nearly choked.
“A cottage?”
“Yes! James mentioned you’re saving for one.”
Emily’s face flushed. So he’d told her. Without asking. Again.
“We *are* saving. But weTheir peace lasted only until the next morning, when Margaret announced she’d be staying the weekend—with her cat.
