“But you were the one who suggested taking Mum in. I never forced you,” said Oliver to Emily.
Emily had just graduated when she joined the company where Oliver worked. He noticed the quiet, pretty girl right away. As the office veteran, he gave her a tour of the building, then waited for her with his car after work. That’s how they started seeing each other. Six months later, they married.
Oliver had recently bought a flat—no money left for renovations. Emily’s parents helped. The young couple threw themselves into decorating their first home: shopping for wallpaper, sticking it up themselves in the evenings. Sometimes friends came over to lend a hand. It was lively, cheerful work. Emily chose furniture and little trinkets to make the place cosy. When the renovations were done, they celebrated with a raucous party. Now, all that was left was to live and be happy.
“Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s hold off on kids for now. We’ll go on holiday, relax, and then…” Oliver said to Emily.
It was a warm, sunny June, the air thick with drifting poplar fluff. Holiday season had arrived. In the evenings, they debated where to go, comparing hotels, booking tickets. But disaster struck from nowhere, and their holiday dreams crumbled.
One morning, as Emily touched up her mascara at the kitchen table and Oliver hovered over the kettle, the phone rang.
“Em, coffee’s ready,” Oliver said, picking up.
Emily poured the steaming liquid, lifting the cup to her lips.
“What?!” Oliver barked into the phone.
Her hand jerked, scalding her lips and tongue. Coffee splashed across the table in an ugly brown puddle.
“What’s wrong?” Emily asked, watching his face shift.
“Mum’s in hospital. The neighbour called. I’ll go see what’s happened. Can you get to work alone? Let them know I’ll be late.”
“Of course.” Emily stared at the mess on the table.
“Run, clean it later. The bus won’t wait,” Oliver said, and Emily obeyed, rushing out.
She hurried to the bus stop when Oliver drove past, giving a short honk. Emily waved after him, licking her burnt lips.
“How’s your mum?” she asked when Oliver arrived at the office three hours later.
“Bad. Stroke. Right side paralysed. Can’t speak. Doctor says recovery’s unlikely. She can’t live alone.”
“So let’s take her in. What’s there to think about? Or do you plan to visit her every day after work? She’ll need feeding, changing… This way, we save time on travel.”
Oliver agreed. Emily almost thought he’d been waiting for her to say it.
Three weeks later, Margaret—Oliver’s mother—was brought home from hospital. Emily and Oliver gave her their bedroom.
“Maybe we should take holiday in shifts to care for her? How can we leave her alone?” Emily whispered in the kitchen.
“Em, you’re the woman—it’s easier for you. Stay home tomorrow. I’ll arrange remote work. We’ve sunk all our money into the flat. A nurse is out of the question. Medicine, physio…” Oliver said, and Emily obeyed again.
She spun like a hamster in a wheel. Spoon-fed Margaret, changed her nappies. The moment she sat at her laptop, Margaret groaned, calling for her. Then came shopping, cooking. By the time Oliver came home, Emily was dead on her feet.
Exhaustion festered, resentment towards Oliver for not lifting a finger—only visiting his mother long enough to say hello. Mistakes piled up at work until her boss reassigned her projects. Then came the call: Oliver had requested her replacement…
“Can’t you at least hold the spoon with your good hand? Help me a little!” Emily snapped at Margaret.
“How dare you decide for me?” she lashed out at Oliver.
“You’re not coping.”
“You could help. I’m killing myself here… I can’t take it anymore.” She slumped at the table, head in hands. “That smell—it’s driving me mad. I change the nappies constantly, but it lingers. I open a window, and your mother moans about the cold.”
“But you were the one who suggested taking Mum in. I never forced you,” Oliver said.
Emily choked on the words. So it was her burden to bear.
One night, Oliver came home late after a work do. Emily waited up. They fought, shouting over each other. It happened nearly every day now. She’d had enough. She wrenched open the wardrobe, flinging dresses onto the sofa.
“That’s it. I’m done. She’s your mother—you look after her. I’m leaving…”
A guttural sound came from the bedroom.
“What now?” Emily stormed in.
Tears glistened on Margaret’s temples, damp tracks to her ears. Emily wiped them with a towel. Margaret grabbed her nightgown with her good hand, rasping:
“Don’t go… don’t go…”
Emily sat on the bed, weeping helplessly. Margaret stroked her hair.
“Forgive me. I’m so tired. Forgive me…” Emily fled, colliding with Oliver in the doorway. Her glare could have burned him alive.
The next day, before Oliver returned, Emily left. She needed a break. She went to a friend’s. They talked, drank wine, and cried together.
“Listen, what if—speed things along?” her friend suggested, tilting her head meaningfully.
“Are you mad? What if it was my mother?” Emily recoiled.
She never visited that friend again. Truthfully, the thought had crossed her mind too. And it terrified her.
A month later, Margaret died in her sleep. The paramedic said her tongue had blocked her airway… But Emily blamed herself—she’d slept too deeply to hear.
Standing at the graveside, hollowed out by exhaustion, Emily felt nothing. Oliver dabbed his eyes. “Never lifted a finger, barely visited, now he’s weeping over the coffin. What a performance,” she thought, sickened. She walked away before the burial, glancing back twice. Oliver didn’t chase her.
“Goldfish!” a man’s voice called.
Emily turned. A man in a long black coat smiled at her, the wind billowing the fabric like wings. A memory surfaced—Daniel Greene, her old classmate.
“Danny! Greene!”
“The one and only. You look miles away. Funeral?”
“My mother-in-law.” She sighed.
“Rough time?”
She nodded, meeting his eyes.
“My mum died four months ago. Cared for her a year. Wife left the second Mum got sick. So I get it—what you and your husband went through.”
“Alone? You did it alone?” Emily couldn’t believe it.
“Course. She was my mum. And your husband—still back there?”
Emily glanced over her shoulder.
“Need a lift? I’ve got the car.”
“Alright,” she agreed.
They’d just passed the cemetery gates when her phone buzzed.
“Where’d you go? I’m at the car, but you’re gone,” Oliver’s voice was calm.
*The show’s over*, Emily realised.
“I’m tired. Going home,” she said, hanging up. The phone buzzed again. She ignored it.
“Time helps. The hurt fades… Fancy a drink? Trust me, it’ll take the edge off.”
“Alright,” Emily agreed.
She didn’t care—anything to avoid the flat steeped in sickness. “At the wake, they’ll say what a saint Margaret was. Oliver will cry again. But no one came to help. I was the one breathing in that smell day after day…” A shudder ran through her.
They went to a café. Daniel ordered wine. Emily’s first sip was heaven—she nearly downed the glass. It was tart, delicious. She hadn’t felt pleasure like this in ages. The glass emptied fast; Daniel poured another. She drank greedily, parched.
“Hey, slow down. Eat something,” he nudged a salad towards her.
Then the floodgates opened. Emily talked and couldn’t stop. Daniel listened, silent, attentive. His warm palm covered her hand, steadying her.
*Oliver never did that. He hasn’t touched me in months, not even in bed. Is this the end? Margaret’s gone—we could go back. But do I want to?*
“I’m guilty. I wished her dead. I was so tired—I didn’t hear her…” Emily sobbed.
“Not your fault. It was an accident,” Daniel said.
She looked up, tear-streaked.
“Goldfish, let’s get you home.”
“No one’s called me that since school.” She stood—wobbled. Daniel caught her.
He guided her out, Emily clinging to his arm, head on his shoulder. The car lulled her to sleep. Daniel carried her inside, pulled off her mud-caked shoes, tucked her under a blanket.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Oliver’s voiceThe next morning, as sunlight filtered through the curtains, Emily woke with a clarity she hadn’t felt in months—she knew, without a doubt, that the life waiting for her was no longer Oliver’s, but one she would choose for herself.
