Cunning Tim
Emily and her mum had been rowing for days. They’d tire, retreat to their corners, sulk in silence, then—just as one cooled off and tried to talk again—the bickering would flare back up.
“Talking to you is impossible! You never listen. It’s your way or nothing. You didn’t even hear Dad. That’s why he left you,” Emily shouted. She knew bringing up her father was a low blow, but anger had its reins, and she couldn’t stop herself.
“Fine, I’m leaving too. I can’t live without Dan. I love him. Wanted to do this the nice way, but clearly that’s not happening. I’m twenty—an adult. Girls used to be called spinsters by this age. You’re always so *righteous*. Doesn’t it sicken you? I won’t end up like you—” Emily bit her tongue.
“I’m not against it. And I *do* hear you. So why not marry him if you love each other?” Mum said, almost calm, taken aback by her daughter’s outburst.
“Here we go again,” Emily groaned. “Marry *how*? We’re students. Live off you? Or his parents? They already bought him a flat.”
“And how will you afford to live?”
“I *told* you—Dan freelances, builds websites, writes code. Gets paid for it. Ever heard of remote work, Mum? We’ll manage. One more year, we graduate, *then* we’ll marry.”
“So wait that year. What’s the rush—are you pregnant?” Mum eyed Emily’s waist skeptically.
“No! Talking to you is pointless.” Emily stormed to her room, yanking clothes from the wardrobe, shoving them into a backpack. When they wouldn’t fit, she paused by the bed, weighing her options.
Mum entered. *Here comes the shouting*, Emily braced herself. But Mum just stood there silently, then left. Confused, Emily hesitated—until Mum returned minutes later and dropped an old suitcase beside the pile of clothes. The one she’d taken to Brighton with Dad years ago.
“Thanks!” Emily hugged her. “I’m not vanishing—I’ll visit. Call every day. If you need anything, Dan and I will help.”
Mum crumpled onto the bed, face in her hands. “Everyone leaves. Run along, then—like I’m some monster. Young and healthy was fine, now I’m just in the way. Dad found someone younger—tossed me aside like rubbish. But when *he* needed me? Stomach ulcers, bad back—suddenly I was useful. Cooking steamed meals, juicing cabbage, massaging him. Then he bounces back and off he goes. Don’t worry, he’ll crawl back when *she’s* drained him. But I won’t take him.”
She looked up, sharp. “And now *you’re* leaving? Was it so awful here? Cooking, laundry, lectures—just wait till you’re pregnant. Why the rush?”
Emily sat beside her, touching her stiff shoulders. For a split second, she wavered.
“You could’ve kept dating. Why move out?” Mum pressed.
“Why do people live together? Because they *can’t* live apart. I love him. I’ll visit—promise. Call daily. Want us to move *in* with you, then?”
Mum jerked back. “Don’t be daft.”
Emily almost laughed. Mum had married late—Gran was strict, never let her out of sight. Only after Gran died did she “catch the last train,” as they say.
At twenty, Emily’s life was starting; at fifty-five, Mum was already retired. The factory shut down, pensioned off the older workers. Then Dad’s midlife crisis. Emily got it. But how to split herself between Mum and Dan? They’d never coexist. Mum’s stubbornness was legendary. And why try, when Dan had his own place? This was cleaner. Mum was just scared of being alone.
“Sorry, Mum. I love you. But I love Dan too.” She stood, resuming packing.
Once alone, Emily fished her phone from her jeans. “Waiting?” she whispered. “Be there soon.”
Slinging the backpack over her shoulder, she wheeled the suitcase out.
Mum sat at the kitchen table, back turned to the door.
“Mum, don’t be angry. I’ll call tomorrow,” Emily said softly.
No response. Mum looked so small, so wounded, that Emily’s chest ached. But if she caved now, Mum would reel her back in—and Dan was waiting outside, freezing. Steeling herself, Emily left.
A taxi would’ve been nice, but money was tight. They took the bus.
“How’d it go? Did she beg you to stay?” Dan squeezed her hand.
“Fine,” Emily muttered. No details.
“Regretting it?”
“No!” She gripped his hand, leaning into him.
—
Emily called Mum daily between lectures. Only ever complaints: blood pressure, aching joints. Late November, yet damp and mild—hard enough on the healthy, let alone Mum.
Emily offered pep talks. But the litany of ailments grated. *Take your pills, rest*—what else was there to say? Calls grew fewer. She planned a weekend visit.
“Should I come?” Dan asked.
“Better not. To Mum, you’re enemy number one—the reason she’s alone. Last thing we need is a scene. Stay and work.”
She bought satsumas, a cake. Opening the door, the sharp tang of valerian hit her—always a bad sign. Mum lay on the sofa, a towel over her forehead.
“You okay? Should I call an ambulance?” Emily perched on the edge.
“They already came. Gave me a shot and left,” Mum mumbled.
“I brought cake. I’ll put the kettle on.” Emily fled to the kitchen.
*I’ll warn the neighbor to call if things go south*, she thought—though she suspected Mum was milking it. *Playing the martyr. Wants me guilt-tripped. Probably faked the ambulance too.*
She peeled a satsuma and brought it in. “Remember how you’d buy me oranges when I was sick?” She ducked out before Mum could refuse.
Mum ate it. Over tea, the towel came off. She perked up, asking about their flat, why *he* never visited. *He*—always Dan. Resignation had replaced outrage over Emily’s move, but Dan remained unforgiven.
“He wanted to come, but I thought he’d annoy you. Next time. Or visit us—see how we live?”
“When I’m better,” Mum deflected.
By the end, they chatted almost like before.
“Need money?” Mum asked as Emily left.
“We’re fine. And *you*—if you need anything, just ask. Don’t lug groceries alone.”
“I’ll manage,” Mum said vaguely.
In the hallway, she shuffled, clutching her back—a new performance. *Abandoned crone act, round two.* Emily hugged her. “Love you. I’ll call.”
—
“How was it?” Dan didn’t look up from his laptop when Emily got home.
“Okay. Asked why you didn’t come. I said we’d both visit next time.”
“Progress,” he grinned.
“Dinner?”
“Swamped—client’s paying extra for speed. Sorry, but I’ve got to finish tonight.”
“They won’t stiff you like last time?”
“Nah. I’ll send half first, get payment, then the rest.”
Emily sighed, reheating spaghetti bolognese.
—
The next day, outside Tesco, a grubby, rain-sodden mutt blocked their path. His eyes—wise and mournful—locked onto Emily.
“He’s waiting for his owner,” Dan said, tugging her away.
“Owners don’t let dogs get this filthy,” Emily countered.
“Em, *come on*. He’s probably sick.”
But the dog trotted after them.
“I can’t leave him,” Emily said.
“Clever beggar. Playing you like your mum does.”
“Wait—” Emily brightened. “We clean him up, take him to Mum. He’s housebroken. She’ll *have* to care for him, walk him—no time for self-pity.”
“Brilliant,” Dan agreed.
The dog followed them home but balked at the door.
“Coming or not?” Dan fake-slammed it. The dog darted inside.
“Bath first,” Dan herded him toward the bathroom.
“Need help?” Emily knocked.
“Nah. Man-to-man talk.”
Post-bath, the dog—now trembling—hid under the table. Emily fetched the hairdryer, but he flinched.
“Don’t scare him. Feed him instead,” Dan suggested.
The dog ate neatly, then gazed up, hoping for seconds.
“Will it hurt him?” Emily gave him more spaghetti.
Full, he retreated under the table.
NextThe dog—now named Tim—curled up by the fireplace, and though Mum grumbled at first, within a week she was sneaking him biscuits and boasting to the neighbors about her “clever lad”.
