“What on earth is this now?!” Charlotte snapped, her voice tight with irritation as she stood in the middle of their sitting room. Her eyes darted around as if the answer might be hidden among the furniture or the walls.
“Again? The third time this month! How much longer is this going to go on?”
On the sofa, lounging against the cushions, sat James. One hand held his mobile, the other the TV remote. He turned his gaze toward her, but his eyes stayed indifferent, as they always did when it came to his mother.
“What’s ‘again’?” He squinted slightly. “Don’t start another row. I just got home—I want to relax.”
“Another row?” Charlotte took a step forward, her voice rising. “You call this a row? Five hundred quid! Just like that! No explanation, no questions! You didn’t even ask what she needed it for—just sent it!”
James set his phone down beside him with a faint sigh. His expression was more weary than surprised.
“So what? She’s my mum. If she needs money, I’ll help. What’s the problem?”
Charlotte moved closer, her cheeks flushed.
“The problem is we’re saving for a cottage! We agreed—every penny goes toward our future! But every month, you pour money into some black hole! Medicine, repairs, and now ‘unexpected expenses’! Maybe she fancied a new iPhone?”
James rubbed the bridge of his nose, exhaling.
“She’s getting on, Charlotte. She struggles on her own. Sometimes it’s easier to help than to argue.”
“Getting on? She’s only sixty-five! She’s more active than you are! Theatre trips, posh spa weekends, guided tours—meanwhile, we haven’t had a proper holiday in ten years!”
“Charlotte!” His voice sharpened for the first time. “Don’t talk about my mother like that. She raised me.”
“She raised you, James, not me. And yes, I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean she gets to keep bleeding us dry! We’re living on one salary—my freelance work is shaky. You know that!”
She was right. After the ad agency where she’d been creative director shut down, she’d turned to freelancing. The work was there, but the income fluctuated. Their budget was brittle as glass. Every extra expense struck it like a hammer.
They dreamed of a cottage. The dream had lived inside them for nearly three years—a little place in the country, roses climbing the trellis, barbecues with friends, cosy evenings by the fire. But every time their savings neared the magic number, something came up—his mother’s new boiler, dental work, wallpaper, gadgets. And they’d be back at square one.
“I’m just tired,” Charlotte said softly, walking to the window. “Tired of coming second. Tired of scrimping while your mother lives in comfort.”
James moved behind her but didn’t embrace her.
“She’s ill, Char. She needs help.”
“Ill with what? A shopping addiction? Have you ever checked where that money goes? She’s off to Spain, buying handbags, dining out—meanwhile, we haven’t been away in a decade!”
“Enough,” he said flatly, his voice cooling again. “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Of course you don’t!” She whirled on him. “You never want to talk when it’s about your mother. To you, she’s a saint—and I’m some villain out to get her. I’m not! I just want fairness! And I want our cottage!”
James fell silent. His shoulders tensed, gaze dropping to the floor. Charlotte knew that look. He wouldn’t argue. He’d just shut down, like always. And in a few hours, he’d walk away as if nothing had happened.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m going to bed.”
And he left her standing there, alone.
Charlotte stayed by the window, staring at the dark sky. The stars flickered, cold and indifferent. She knew—until James made a choice, nothing would change. He was too used to being a son to be a husband. And he loved his mother too much to hear his wife.
***
Morning brought coffee, a jog, and a heavy fog of exhaustion. Charlotte stepped outside, hoping the run would clear her head. Sometimes she ran to forget. Today, she ran to understand.
When she got back, James was getting ready for work. His expression was softer, but not entirely.
“Look, Char,” he began, adjusting his tie, “I’ll talk to Mum. I promise.”
Charlotte studied him.
“About what, exactly? Her spending our money? You know she’ll talk her way out of it—she’s smoother than a politician.”
“I’ll try,” he said, still avoiding her eyes. “Maybe this time it is important. I didn’t ask.”
“Right. It’s always important. Especially when it’s about her wants.” She sighed, feeling the familiar weight settle inside her.
“Alright, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk tonight.” He kissed her forehead quickly and left.
Silence filled the flat, thick and suffocating.
***
They’d met at a mutual friend’s party. Back then, everything was different. James had been attentive, sure of himself, a little romantic. Charlotte 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, her voice able to cut with just a shift in tone.
“I hope you’ll make my son happy,” she’d said, scrutinising Charlotte. “He’s special.”
At the time, Charlotte thought it was just a mother’s concern. Now, she knew it had been a warning.
After the wedding, they moved into their own place. Margaret stayed in hers. And the calls became more frequent. At first, it seemed normal—helping family. But over time, help became obligation.
Once, Charlotte had been there when Margaret bragged to a neighbour about the new washing machine James had bought her.
“The old one rattled,” she’d said smugly. “James insisted on getting me a better one.”
Charlotte had clenched inside. The old one worked perfectly. Margaret just wanted something new. And James, of course, paid.
That was when Charlotte realised—her mother-in-law didn’t just ask for help. She controlled her son.
They got clever. Stopped telling her their plans. Quietly, they saved for a house. When they finally had enough for a mortgage, they moved fast—no fanfare, no celebration. Just keys, smiles, hope.
But Margaret showed up at the housewarming anyway. The first thing she said?
“You could’ve told me, James. I’d have helped.”
“We managed, Mum,” he replied.
Margaret smiled, but something flickered in her eyes. Something like hurt. Or a loss of control.
Their house was cosy but small. Charlotte loved light, space, order—things their cramped space couldn’t give her. Over time, she realised she needed more—not just to live, but to breathe. The dream of a cottage began as a whisper, then grew louder, until it was all she could think about. She imagined it—a little house in the woods, a garden, mornings with a book, evenings by the fire. It kept her going when it felt like they’d never escape rent and scrimping.
James, seeing how much it meant to her, agreed. He was like that—ready to support her happiness. They started saving again. But soon, their budget began leaking—from the same place: Margaret.
A week after their latest row over money, Charlotte was working on her laptop when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood there, pristine in her tweed coat, clutching her leather handbag with a smile that made Charlotte’s stomach twist.
“Hello, darling! James said you’d be in. Thought I’d pop by for a cuppa.”
Charlotte forced a smile and let her in. Margaret had never “popped by” without reason.
The woman surveyed the flat. “Oh, how lovely! So bright, so tidy. You’re such a good homemaker, dear.”
Charlotte thanked her cautiously.
“So… to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Oh, nothing much,” Margaret said, setting down a Tupperware. “Just wanted to see you. Brought some scones—help yourself.”
They sat at the kitchen table. The tea was brewed, but the mood was anything but cosy.
“Darling,” Margaret began, voice lowered, “I’ve been thinking. James works so hard… and I’m all alone in that big house. It gets lonely.”
Charlotte watched her carefully.
“And how do you solve that?”
“Well…” Margaret paused for effect. “I was talking to the ladies at bridge club. They’ve all got these lovely little places in the countryside—fresh air, peace. So I thought…” She eyed Charlotte. “Wouldn’t it be nice if you had a cottage?”
Charlotte nearly choked.
“A cottage?”
“Yes! You’re saving for one, aren’t you?Charlotte smiled, took another sip of tea, and said, “That’s a lovely idea, Margaret—perhaps you’d like to contribute to the guest room fund, since you’ll be visiting so often.”
