“What on earth is this?!” Emily snapped, standing in the middle of the living room, her voice trembling with frustration. She scanned the room as if the walls might offer an explanation.
“Again?! This is the third time this month! How much longer?”
On the sofa, lounging against the cushions, sat Daniel. Phone in one hand, TV remote in the other, he barely glanced at his wife, his expression as indifferent as always when it came to his mother.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” he asked, squinting. “Don’t start another drama. I just got home—I want to relax.”
“Drama?” Emily took a step forward, her voice rising. “You call this drama? Five hundred pounds! Just like that! No questions, no explanation! You didn’t even ask what she needed it for—just transferred it!”
Daniel set his phone down with a quiet sigh. His face showed more exhaustion than surprise.
“So what? She’s my mum. If she needs money, I help. What’s the problem?”
Emily moved closer, her cheeks flushed.
“The problem is we’re saving for a cottage! We agreed—every penny goes toward our future! And every month, you throw money away! First it’s medicine, then a new fridge, now ‘unexpected expenses’—what’s next, a designer handbag?”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“She’s getting on, Emily. It’s hard for her to manage alone. Sometimes it’s easier to help than argue.”
“Getting on? She’s sixty-five! She’s more active than you! Yoga retreats, weekend spa trips, flower-arranging classes—meanwhile, we haven’t had a proper holiday in ten years!”
“Emily.” His voice sharpened slightly. “Don’t talk about my mum like that. She raised me.”
“She raised you, Daniel. Not me. And yes, I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean she gets to drain our savings! We live on one salary. My freelance work’s inconsistent—you know that!”
And he did. After the marketing agency closed, leaving Emily jobless, she’d turned to freelance. Money came but never predictably. Their budget was as fragile as glass—every unexpected expense cracked it further.
They’d dreamed of a cottage for years. A little place in the countryside—roses climbing the porch, barbecues with friends, quiet evenings by the fire. But each time they neared their savings goal, something derailed them—his mother’s plumbing disaster, a new telly, a sudden dentist bill. Back to square one.
“I’m just tired,” Emily said softly, walking to the window. “Tired of coming second. Tired of scrimping while your mother lives like a duchess.”
Daniel approached but didn’t touch her.
“She’s not well, Em. She needs support.”
“Not well from what? Jet lag from her last holiday? Have you ever checked where that money goes? She’s dining at Michelin-starred restaurants while we’re debating whether to fix the boiler!”
“Enough,” he said flatly, his voice dull again. “I’m not discussing this.”
“Of course you’re not!” Emily whirled around. “You never do when it’s about her. She’s a saint—I’m the villain. But I don’t hate her. I just want fairness. And our cottage.”
Daniel fell silent, shoulders tense, gaze fixed on the floor. Emily knew that look—he wouldn’t argue. He’d shut down, wait it out, and vanish upstairs as if nothing happened.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m going to bed.”
And he left her standing there, alone.
Outside, stars glittered coldly. Emily knew nothing would change until Daniel chose—truly chose—to be her husband before his mother’s son.
—
Morning brought coffee, a jog, and the same heavy exhaustion. Emily ran to clear her head—sometimes to forget, sometimes to understand. Today, it was the latter.
When she returned, Daniel was dressing for work, his expression softer but guarded.
“Look, Em,” he said, adjusting his tie, “I’ll talk to Mum. I mean it.”
Emily studied him.
“Talk about what? Asking her to stop spending our money? You know she’ll twist it—she’s smoother than a politician.”
“I’ll try,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “Maybe it’s important this time.”
“Right. Always is when it’s her.” She sighed, the familiar weariness settling in.
“Gotta go. We’ll talk tonight.” A quick peck on her forehead, and he was gone.
Silence filled the flat, thick and suffocating.
—
They’d met at a friend’s party, back when everything was different. Daniel had been attentive, confident, even romantic. Emily, full of ideas and hope. Opposites that fit.
She’d met Margaret before the wedding—sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, a woman who could silence a room with a glance.
“I hope you’ll make my son happy,” she’d said, scrutinising Emily. “He’s special.”
At the time, Emily had thought it motherly love. Now, she knew it was a warning.
After the wedding, they’d moved into their flat. Margaret, widowed, stayed in hers. Calls for “help” grew frequent—no longer requests but obligations.
Once, visiting, Emily overheard Margaret boasting about the “gift” of a top-tier washing machine:
“The old one rattled. Danny insisted I needed better.”
Emily had clenched her fists. The old machine worked fine. But Daniel always paid—always.
She’d realised then: Margaret didn’t just ask—she commanded.
They’d started keeping secrets. Quietly saving for a house, securing a mortgage without fanfare. No announcements, no parties—just keys and hope.
But Margaret arrived uninvited on moving day.
“You should’ve told me,” she’d said. “I could’ve helped.”
“We managed, Mum,” Daniel replied.
She’d smiled, but her eyes held something else—something like loss. Loss of control.
The flat was cosy but cramped, its walls pressing in on Emily’s dreams. She longed for space, air, greenery. The cottage became her beacon—a little house with ivy-covered walls, morning coffee on the porch, friends laughing under string lights. It kept her going.
Daniel, seeing her passion, agreed to save. But their budget leaked—always through Margaret.
A week after the latest money fight, Emily was working when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, leather handbag in tow, smiling in a way that set off alarms.
“Darling! Daniel said you’d be home. Thought I’d pop by for tea.”
Emily forced a smile. Margaret never “popped by.”
Inside, Margaret surveyed the flat. “Lovely as ever! So tidy.”
Tea was made, niceties exchanged. Then—
“Emily,” Margaret sighed, lowering her voice. “I’ve been thinking… Danny works so hard. And I’m alone so often…”
Emily tensed.
“Have you considered… a country cottage?”
Emily nearly choked. “A cottage?”
“Yes! Daniel mentioned you’re saving. I’d love to help.” She pulled out an envelope. “For you both.”
Inside—enough to buy their dream.
Emily stared. “This is too generous.”
“Nonsense! Family helps family.”
When Daniel came home, Emily showed him the money.
“Where’d she get this?” he whispered.
“Savings, apparently.”
For once, hope flickered.
Two months later, they owned a cottage. Small but perfect—a garden, a firepit, peace.
Margaret called often, asking for updates. Emily stayed polite but wary.
At the housewarming, Margaret arrived early, inspecting every corner. “Lovely! But only one guest room?”
The party was warm, laughter filling the air. Daniel raised a glass:
“To Mum—we couldn’t have done this without her!”
Margaret beamed. But her gaze lingered on Emily—triumphant.
Guests left. Only Margaret remained.
Over breakfast, she dropped the bomb:
“Bertie and I might stay a fortnight. The countryside’s so relaxing.”
Emily’s blood ran cold. Bertie—Margaret’s spoiled, destructive Persian.
Daniel paled. “What?”
Margaret smiled. “Well, I did help buy it, darling.”
Emily exhaled slowly. Then—
“Of course! Though our rescue greyhound, Max, comes home tomorrow. He’s… energetic with cats.”
Margaret’s smile faltered. She hated dogs.
Daniel caught on, lips twitching.
This cottage might become a battlefield—but Emily wouldn’t surrender it without a fight.
