**The Weight of Freedom**
*Friday, 12th May*
“Margaret, have you seen the blue folder with the documents?” My voice trembled as I searched the living room of our quiet Leeds suburb. “I left it on the side table!”
“Oh, that tatty old thing?” Margaret barely looked up from her tea. “Covered in coffee stains—I tossed it out.”
I froze, as if struck. That folder held two weeks’ worth of work, due tomorrow. The signatures alone would take hours to redo—where would I get them at this hour?
“How could you?” I hissed through gritted teeth. “That was a critical report! It wasn’t even damaged—just a few scuffs! Do you realise I could lose my job over this?”
“Don’t leave your mess lying about,” she scoffed, nudging her half-finished tea aside. “If it meant so much, you’d have kept it in your study, not cluttering up *my* house.”
“It was on the side table, not the floor!” My temples throbbed.
This wasn’t the first time. A shirt “too shabby” for her liking, an old notebook—Margaret had a habit of discarding my things. But tonight crossed a line.
“This is *my* home,” she declared, chin raised. “Don’t like it? No one’s keeping you here.”
I clenched my fists, counting to ten in my head. But calm wouldn’t come. *Her* house. Of course. She’d insisted we live here after Emily’s difficult pregnancy. “Why waste money on rent?” she’d said. At first, it made sense—I was working long hours, Emily could barely move. Her mother’s help seemed a blessing.
After our son James was born, I suggested moving. Emily refused. “Mum does everything—why would I leave?” She loved her lazy mornings, spa days, and an hour of playtime before bed. Being a proper mother? Not on her list.
But I’d had enough. Secretly, I’d been investing in a house just outside York. Emily knew nothing—I’d expected her protests, her excuses to stay under her mother’s thumb.
Shaking off the anger, I grabbed my coat and headed for the bins. The rubbish hadn’t been collected—maybe the folder was still there. To my relief, it was, untouched. I stormed back inside, shooting Margaret a glare before marching straight to Emily.
“Pack your things. We’re leaving tomorrow,” I said, sinking into the armchair.
“Leaving? *Why?*” Emily’s face twisted in panic. “We have everything here! And don’t you dare speak badly of Mum—she does so much for us!”
“We only stayed because you needed help,” I snapped. “Now you’re well. It’s time you ran your own home.”
“Mum helps with James! You know how difficult he is!”
“Helps?” I scoffed. “She’s raising him *for* you—and turning him against me. I’ve heard her call me a ‘bad father’ to his face!”
“He’s not even a year old—he doesn’t understand!” Emily rolled her eyes.
“I disagree,” I said coldly. “An hour of playtime isn’t motherhood. Margaret won’t even let me near him—always whisking him off to feed or change him.”
“Like you care! You’re gone before he wakes and back after he’s asleep!”
“Starting next month, that changes,” I said firmly. “My new role has fixed hours—no more overtime. But the office is in York. Commuting from here won’t work.”
“So get a flat there during the week!” she snapped. “Why uproot us?”
“We have a house there,” I said calmly.
“*What?*” Emily gasped.
“Three bedrooms, garden, quiet neighbourhood. Finished last month. Furnished it yesterday.”
“I *hate* the countryside!” she shrieked. “I’m not going!”
“Then we divorce,” I said flatly.
“You can’t! James isn’t even one—the courts will side with me!”
“Fine,” I shrugged. “But I won’t stay here. I’ll live in *my* home. Eat what I want, leave things where I want, without fearing they’ll be binned. Think carefully, Emily—your mother’s pension is peanuts. Alimony won’t cover the lifestyle you’re used to.”
In the end, she gave in. But the move was a nightmare for her—cooking, cleaning, caring for James. No more spa days. No more lazy mornings. I helped, but it wasn’t enough.
A month later, she fled back to her mother’s, taking James. Angry, she filed for divorce, demanding half the house. She planned to sell her share cheaply to force me to buy her out—knowing I couldn’t afford it. Then I’d *have* to return.
But her plan crumbled. The house was in my parents’ name. She got nothing but modest alimony.
Margaret was livid too—no one left to bully. Emily crumpled at the slightest criticism, and James was too young to understand.
Six months later, I suggested reconciling—for James’ sake. Emily jumped at the chance. To my surprise, she took to homemaking. The lazy days under her mother’s roof were gone, but this new life, though hard, brought her something unexpected—pride.
