I never could bear my motherinlaws antics any longer, so I was the first to file for divorce.
Did you buy that butter again? she snapped at Emily Parker, clutching a slab of butter as if it were a poisonous toad. I told you, James, that brand gives him heartburn. Use the yellowwrapped one cheaper and more natural. You keep blowing our money on fancy things and trying to poison your husband.
Martha Thompson stood in the middle of the kitchen, the butter package trembling in her hands. Emily, just home from her logistics job, longed only for a steaming mug of tea and a moment of peace. The argument played out with the regularity of a clockwork drama: the wrong loaf of bread, the laundry powder that smelled odd, curtains hung crookedly.
James has been using that butter for three years and hes never complained, Emily replied calmly, setting her handbag on a chair. Please put it in the fridge before it melts.
Look at how you speak to your elders! Martha flailed her arms dramatically. James! Can you hear her? Im looking after your health, and your wife whines at me like a child!
James, her husband, lounged in the sitting room before the telly. Hearing his mothers call, he trudged into the kitchen with a guilty, tired expression. In five years of marriage hed never learned to mediate between the two women, preferring the ostrichs tactic of burying his head in the sand until the storm passed.
Mum, Emily, whats this again? he muttered, shifting his gaze between them. Its just butter. Mum, hand it over, Ill put it away.
No, listen to me, son! Martha snapped, unwilling to concede. She cant run a household. The fridge is a mess of yoghurts and lettuce. A man needs meat! Steaks, a hearty stew! Yet she comes home late, exhausted, and feeds you processed rubbish. In my day I worked, kept the house spotless, and always had firstcourse, secondcourse, thirdcourse ready!
Anger boiled inside Emily. She earned a salary about one and a half times Jamess, and it was thanks to her that they had renovated the flat and bought a new Ford. To Martha, who had spent her life as a parttime librarian, her daughterinlaws career was just noise. The most important thing was a good stew.
Mrs Thompson, Emily said icecold, I work until seven. James gets home at five. If he wants meat, he can fry a steak himself. He has hands.
The man at the stove? Martha gasped, clutching the amber pendant at her throat. Thats a womans work! Youve taught him to wear shoes in the house!
James winced.
Mum, truly, I can boil dumplings. Dont start. Emilys tired.
Shes tired! And Im not! I travelled across the city, with changes, bringing you raspberry jam and pies because I knew you were hungry!
In truth Martha lived a halfhour bus ride away, and the jam and pies were merely an excuse for another inspection. Shed been given a spare key to their flat a year earlier, after James reluctantly handed it over despite Emilys protests. Since then emergencies occurred two or three times a week: shed appear when no one was home, rearrange pots in the cupboards, overwater the houseplants until they rotted, and leave a note listing every shortcoming.
Thanks for the jam, Emily managed, forcing a smile. Shall we have tea?
The evening passed in tense silence, broken only by Marthas monologue about rising council tax, wayward youth, and how the neighbours daughterinlaw was a goldmine compared to a real woman. Emily chewed a saltladen scone and wondered how much longer she could endure.
That night, after Martha finally left, Emily tried to speak with James.
We need to get her keys back, she whispered, lying in the dark, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Why? She just wants to help. Shes lonely; her husband died long ago. Were her light in the window.
Its not a light, James, its a floodlamp scorching everything. She invades our privacy. Last time she moved my underwear because it wasnt Fengshui. Doesnt that seem mad?
She means no harm, Emily. Its just her oldfashioned way. Bear with it, for my sake. I dont want a fight; the ambulance would come, the injections
Emily turned on her side, the word bear echoing as the mantra of their marriage: endure the criticism, the unannounced visits, the unsolicited advice.
The situation erupted a month later when Emily and James planned a halfyear holiday by the sea. They booked a hotel and bought tickets. Two days before departure the phone rang.
James! Im feeling dreadful! My heart is tight, I cant breathe! Come quickly! Marthas voice trembled.
James dropped his halfpacked suitcase and raced to his mother. Emily went with him, though a suspicion gnawed at her.
They burst into Marthas flat to find her slumped on the sofa, a damp towel on her forehead, a blood pressure cuff on the coffee table.
Oh, my boy, youre here she wheezed. I thought Id never see you again. Its hit me hard
Did you call an ambulance? James asked, feeling her pulse.
Why would I? Theyd just ruin everything. I just need you here, a glass of water, a hand to hold. Its scary on my own.
Emily, were flying out tomorrow, James reminded gently.
Martha stared at him with the hollow look of a swan about to drown.
If Im ill, youll abandon me? In this state? she cried. What if I die tonight?
Emily stepped forward, voice firm. If youre ill, well call a doctor. If the doctor says you need hospital care, well cancel the trip. If its just a rise in blood pressure, well hire a caregiver for a week.
A caregiver? Martha shrieked, the towel slipping. Another stranger in my house? You want me dead so you can gallivant off to a resort!
Emily pulled out her phone.
Well call the doctor.
No doctors! Just nerves! Because my son leaves me!
The holiday was ruined. Their tickets were forfeited at a loss of half their price, and Emily spent a week in the stifling town watching Martha trot through shops, devouring fried chicken whenever James turned his back.
See? Shes manipulating you, Emily told James later. She wasnt ill; she just didnt want us to leave.
Youre exaggerating, James snapped, angry but unwilling to admit his mothers grip. Shes old, scared. Youre just cheap on the travel money.
That argument marked the first serious crack. Emily realised she would always be second to Marthas whims.
The climax came on an ordinary Wednesday. Emily, feeling a cold coming on, left work early, hoping to crawl under a blanket and take some medicine. As she approached her flat, she heard voices. James should have been at work. She slipped the lock with her key.
In the hallway lay foreign boots and an unfamiliar coat. From the kitchen came laughter and a womans voice she didnt recognise.
look at this mess, Liza! Dust the age of the hills! Im here to tidy, and she just turns her nose up. A daughterinlaw is a curse, cant cook, wont have children, spends money on rags.
Emily froze, slipped off her shoes, and tiptoed toward the kitchen.
Ah, Gilly, dont even start, a familiar voice replied. My husbands also a mess. The flats nice, but the owners missing.
The flats nice, just the landladys gone, Martha sighed. Im thinking of moving the curtains, getting a new sofa I told James we could bring my old set, sturdy as a barn, and ditch this one.
Emily entered the kitchen.
Martha and a stout woman with a permanent perm sat at the table, sipping tea from the fine set Emilys parents had given her on her wedding day. A slab of ham, a loaf of crusty bread, and an open tin of anchovies lay on the table, butter dripping onto the tablecloth.
Seeing Emily, the guest choked on her tea. Martha blinked, then composed herself.
Well, look who finally decided to drop in. Fired yourself early, have you?
Whats happening here? Emily asked, voice trembling with icy rage rather than fear.
Nothing, the guest replied, wiping her mouth. My friend popped round for a cuppa. We thought wed have a snack while we wait for you to fetch the groceries.
Youve brought strangers into my home without my permission, Emily snapped. Youve entered my house, my cups, my everything.
This is my sons flat! Martha retorted. Dont you dare raise your voice at me! Im his mother, I can come when I like!
This flat was bought by me before we married. James is only on the lease. And you, Martha, put those keys on the table right now.
What? Youre throwing me out? Marthas face turned the colour of a ripe tomato. Ill tell James! Ill tell him
Keys. On. The. Table.
Martha lunged, toppling a teacup. Dark liquid spread across the crisp linen.
Youll never have my sons keys again! she shrieked. I raised a man, youre living off his generosity!
Emily did not scream. She simply dialled the police.
Police, Id like to report an unlawful entry and intimidation at 12 Willow Street
Marthas eyes widened. Her friend Liza, catching the scent of fried chicken, clambered toward the door muttering about a forgotten iron.
Youll call the police on your own mother? Martha hissed.
If you dont leave and hand over the keys, I will.
Martha flung the bunch of keys onto the floor; they clattered against the tiles.
Youll regret this! Ill make James leave you! she yelled, fleeing and slamming the door so hard the plaster cracked.
Emily lifted the keys, hands shaking, and sat down, looking at the stained tablecloth, the spilt tea, the anchovies.
That evening James returned, frantic after his mothers hysterical call, telling him Emily had assaulted her, insulted her friend and thrown her out in September weather.
What on earth are you doing? he roared as he entered. Your mother had a heart attack! We called an ambulance! Why did you threaten the police? Are you mad?
Emily was already packing Jamess suitcasesthree bags and two boxes stood by the door.
I didnt threaten anyone, she said. I was defending my home. Your mother brought strangers in, rummaged through my things and ate my food while talking behind my back.
She was just having a cuppa! This is my house too! James protested.
It isnt yours, Emily replied. You live here as long as were a family, but the family is gone.
James stared at the suitcases.
Youre serious? Over a fight? Emily, calm down. Everyone makes mistakes. Mom will forgive you if you apologise.
I apologise? James, you dont hear me. Its not a quarrel. Its that youre married to your mother. Im the odd one out. Im tired of being a servant, a purse, a punching bag. I want to come home and feel safe. With you and your mother thats impossible.
Who will need you? James snapped, realizing his usual tactics were failing. Youre thirtytwo, a divorcee? Think youll find a prince? Ive put up with you, your temper, and another day would break me.
Lets see, Emily said coldly. Leave, James. Go back to Mum. Shes dying, needs you to cook her stew.
Ill go! James shouted, grabbing a suitcase. Youll beg for me in a week!
He stormed out. Emily locked the door, then the latch, and for the first time in years felt her shoulders relax. The silence that settled was not empty but a ringing, healing hush.
The next two months were hard. James first sent plaintive messages about his mothers health, then threatened to claim the car (which Emily had managed to register in her fathers name) and demanded compensation for repairs, using receipts she kept. Martha spread rumours that Emily was a golddigging psychopath.
Finally, Emily filed for divorce. In court James appeared crumpled, his shirt untucked evidently his mother had warned him that even an iron could be hazardous to health. He whispered that he loved her, that hed spoken to his mother and shed agreed to stay neutral.
Its too late, James, Emily answered. Im used to my soup without a bay leaf if I dont want it.
A year after the divorce, Emily sat in a café with a friend, laughing over coffee. She looked radiant fresh haircut, sparkle in her eyes. She had finally taken up dancing, a longheld dream, and earned a promotion at work.
Through the window she saw James, arminarm with Martha, who was scolding him vigorously, pointing at a shop. James trudged with heavy bags, his face resigned.
Her friend followed Emilys gaze.
Regret it? she asked.
Emily sipped her cappuccino and smiled.
Only one thing. I wish Id taken those keys back five years ago.
She turned away from the street, where a strangers life continued, full of admonitions, control, and other peoples scripts. Inside, her own life unfolded, quiet and, at last, beautifully her own.
