**The Weight of Duty**
“But it was your idea to take Mum in. I never forced you,” said Gareth to Emily.
After finishing university, Emily joined the firm where Gareth already worked. He noticed the quiet, pretty girl right away. As a longtime employee, he showed her around the office, then waited for her afterward in his car. That was how they started dating—and half a year later, they married.
Gareth had recently bought a flat, but money for renovations had run dry. Emily’s parents helped. The young couple threw themselves into making their first home, shopping for wallpaper and furniture, sticking it up themselves in the evenings. Sometimes friends pitched in. The work was chaotic but fun. Emily picked out cosy little touches—cushions, lamps, curtains. When the renovations finished, they celebrated with a raucous housewarming. Now, life would be pure joy.
“Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s hold off on kids for a bit. We’ll go on holiday first, relax, then… maybe,” Gareth murmured to Emily one evening.
June was warm and golden, the air thick with drifting poplar fluff. Holiday season had arrived. They spent evenings planning their trip—booking hotels, comparing flights. But disaster struck when they least expected it, shattering their dreams of sunlit beaches.
One morning, as Emily sat at the kitchen table applying mascara and Gareth watched the coffee brew, the phone rang.
“Em, coffee’s ready,” Gareth said, then answered.
Emily poured the steaming drink, lifting the cup to her lips.
“What?” Gareth barked into the phone.
Her hand jerked. Scalding liquid splashed onto the table, searing her lips and tongue.
“What’s happened?” she asked, studying his ashen face.
“Mum’s in hospital. The neighbour just called. I’ll go—see what’s going on. Can you get to work on your own? Tell them I’ll be late.”
“Of course.” Emily’s gaze fixed on the dark pool spreading across the wood.
“Leave it. The bus won’t wait,” Gareth said. Emily obeyed, rushing out.
She hurried toward the stop when Gareth’s car sped past, his horn blaring briefly. She waved half-heartedly, still licking her burnt lips.
“How’s your mum?” she asked when Gareth appeared at her office three hours later.
“Bad. Stroke. Right side’s paralysed. Can’t speak. Doctor says recovery’s unlikely. She can’t live alone.”
“Then let’s bring her home. What’s there to debate? Or do you plan to visit every evening—feeding her, changing nappies? This way, we save time.”
Gareth agreed. For a second, Emily wondered if he’d been waiting for her to suggest it.
Three weeks later, Margaret—Gareth’s mother—was discharged. They gave her their bedroom.
“Maybe we take leave in shifts to care for her? We can’t leave her alone,” Emily whispered in the kitchen.
“Em, you’re better at this. Stay home tomorrow; I’ll arrange remote work. We sank everything into the flat. We can’t afford a nurse. Medicine, physio—it all costs money.” So Emily obeyed again.
She spun like a hamster on a wheel—spoon-feeding Margaret, changing soiled pads, dashing to the shops, cooking meals. The moment she opened her laptop, Margaret would moan for her. When Gareth came home, Emily collapsed from exhaustion.
Resentment festered. Gareth barely lifted a finger, just poked his head in to say hello. Work piled up; her boss returned documents, demanding fixes. Then came the call: *Gareth requested your dismissal. We’ve replaced you.*
“Can’t you hold a bloody spoon?” Emily snapped once, losing patience.
“How dare you decide for me?” she raged at Gareth later.
“You’re not coping.”
“You could *help* me. I’m breaking my back here—” She sank into a chair, clutching her head. “I’m going mad from the smell. I change her constantly, but it *lingers*. Open a window, and she moans about the cold.”
“*You* offered to take Mum. I never forced you,” Gareth said.
Emily’s breath caught. *She* had shouldered this burden. She just hadn’t realised it.
——
One night, Gareth stumbled home after office drinks. They fought—again. Screaming became routine. Fed up, Emily yanked dresses from the wardrobe, tossing them onto the sofa.
“I’m done. *Your* mother. *You* look after her. I’m leaving—”
From the bedroom came a weak, guttural sound.
“*What now?*” Emily stormed in.
Tears glistened on Margaret’s cheeks. Emily wiped them away. Margaret clutched Emily’s nightdress, whimpering, “D-don’t… go…”
Emily crumpled onto the bed, sobbing. Margaret stroked her hair.
“I’m sorry. I’m just… tired,” Emily gasped before fleeing—straight into Gareth in the doorway. She glared, venom in her eyes.
——
The next day, Emily left before Gareth returned. She needed air. A friend’s flat offered wine and sympathy.
“What if you… *hurried things along*?” her friend hinted, tapping her nose.
“How could you? If it were *my* mum—” Emily recoiled.
She never visited that friend again.
(A secret shame: she’d had the same thought.)
——
A month later, Margaret died in her sleep. The paramedic said her tongue had blocked her airway. Emily blamed herself. *I slept too heavily. I didn’t hear.*
At the funeral, numbness swallowed her. Gareth dabbed his eyes. *Never lifted a finger, but now—waterworks. What a performance.* Disgusted, she walked away. He didn’t follow.
——“Fish!”
Emily turned. A man grinned—tall, his black coat flapping like wings.
“*Daniel?*”
“The one. You looked miles away. Funeral?”
“Mother-in-law.”
His smile faded. “Rough time?”
She nodded.
“Lost my mum four months back. Cared for her a year. Wife bolted the second Mum got ill. I get it.”
“*Alone?*” Emily couldn’t fathom it.
“She was my *mother*. Your husband’s still at the grave?”
Emily glanced back.
“Need a lift? I’ve got the car.”
“Yes,” she said.
As they passed the cemetery gates, her phone buzzed.
“Where’d you go? I’m at the car—you’re not here,” Gareth said, eerily calm.
*The show’s over,* she realised.
“Tired. Going home.” She hung up.
——“Need a drink,” Daniel said. They slid into a café. Wine flowed. Emily gulped hers, starved for pleasure. Daniel listened, warm hand over hers.
(*Gareth hadn’t touched her in months. Was their love dead? Margaret was gone—everything could go back to how it was. But… did she* want *it to?*)
“I wished her *dead*,” Emily choked. “I didn’t hear her—”
“Not your fault,” Daniel said.
Later, drunk, she swayed. He caught her, drove her home, tucked her in. Gareth’s voice—“Who the hell are *you*?”—faded as sleep dragged her under.
——
She woke alone, head pounding.
A call. Daniel’s voice: “Fish, how’re you holding up?”
“Like death.”
“Shower. Tea. Then come to my office.”
——
“You did languages at uni, yeah?” Daniel asked later.
“French, fluent English, rusty German.”
“Perfect. Here’s your desk. In-house translator. Pay’s decent. Fancy it?”
Emily smiled for the first time in months. *“Yes.”*
——“Bad move,” Gareth sneered when she told him. “I could’ve got your old job back.”
——
On the fortieth day, Emily visited the grave. September rain had turned earth to sludge. A withered wreath slumped; Gareth hadn’t been. She tidied it.
Margaret’s photo stared guiltily—or was that Emily’s conscience?
“Forgive me. And… thank you. For showing me the truth. I’m leaving him.” Fresh flowers on damp soil, then she walked away.
——
With her first paycheque, Emily rented a flat and filed for divorce. Gareth begged her back. She collected her things, but the flat—once *theirs*—choked her. The sickness smell had faded.
“You with *him*?” Gareth asked as she hauled her suitcase out.
“No. Just work. We went to school together.”
She left, mourning wasted years.
——“Why’d you ignore me at school?” she asked Daniel over lunch.
“Didn’t. *You* were too busy studying. Fish and Pigeon—never a match.”
“I’m”But you didn’t ignore me when it mattered,” she replied, slipping her hand into his.
