Lena’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. It was from her mother-in-law. Again. She hesitated before answering.
“Sweetheart, you’re not heading out for just a few days this time?” the voice on the other end, smooth and expectant, asked. “Maybe extend your visit? Lina! Why aren’t you saying anything?”
“Happy birthday, Mrs. Thompson. You know we’d love to see you. Matthew and I will call when we settle the details.”
Lena hung up the corded phone, her fingers twitching as she slipped it back into the cradle. *Ugh, how does that happen?* she thought. The conversation had been warm, the call timed for a milestone—Mrs. Thompson’s 60th. Yet, from the first hello to the final good-bye, Lena had counted down the seconds until it ended.
Matthew’s insistence on the weekend getaway to the country was as old as their marriage. “We must.” He’d say it with the same tone as his parents’ silverware clinking at dinner: unyielding. Respect for elders, he’d once told her, was earned by showing up.
—
“Len, I see your parents once a year, maybe. If we don’t visit, the kids will think their grandma is just a blur in a photo.” Matthew leaned forward, his hands clasped, a tactic he used in meetings.
“They’re not *just* a blur, sweetheart. But do you ever wonder if they’d trade all this for not seeing us at all?” Lena tucked the duvet tighter, recalling the last visit. Their youngest, Niko, had been cornered in the hallway by a demonstration of floral arrangements gone wrong.
“Your mother, for instance. All she asks is a picture of the boys or a clip of Niko’s new steps. That’s it. No questions about school, no *Are you well?* Just—*Look what the grandchildren do*.” Lena’s voice dropped. “Like we’re props.”
Matthew blinked. “We’re inconvenient for Mrs. Thompson, so we should stop being inconvenient? That’s not how family works.”
He was right. But then, Mrs. Thompson’s mother had arrived unannounced once. She’d packed a cot, helped bake a cake, fixed the drywall, and left without a word. No one in Matthew’s family acted like anything so much as a Sunday walk in the park.
“Marjorie is a gift,” Matthew said, naming his father’s ex-partner. “I can’t deny it. But your side is… different.” He paused. “Our side.”
Lena exhaled. “Visit them, then. But don’t be surprised when your mother looks at Niko like he’s a mechanical marvel.”
—
The drive out to the countryside was a parade of hedges and crows. Lena hummed a tune on the radio, a half-hearted attempt to enthuse her sons. Matthew was quiet, his eyes fixed on the path ahead.
The Thompsons’ stone cottage sprawled before them, a relic of some past age. Mrs. Thompson stood at the door, her face a mask of warmth until Lena’s children, dirt smudged on their knees, clattered in behind them.
“Dears! Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting.” The voice was syrup, but Lena heard a fork clatter subtly in the kitchen.
The week unspooled in a mosaic of sideways remarks. “Why so many bags, dear? The weather isn’t that *unpredictable*,” Mrs. Thompson had said, with a glance at Lena’s coat—bright, yes, but not *jazzy*. “Matthew’s so thin. You don’t feed him enough,” she’d whispered, as Niko spilled jam all over the sofa. “Every child makes a mess,” Lena had countered, loud enough for the table to hear.
At dinner, the tension reached a peak. Niko had been playing with a ladle, and when Lena went to serve another piece of roast, the motion was too slow.
“You’re using my vegetable spoon,” Mrs. Thompson hissed, a comma between each word.
“You’ve got five of them,” Lena shot back.
Matthew looked on, frozen. The air in the room smelled like burnt tea.
Finally, he stood. “Mum. When you invite us, do you *want* to be here?” His voice was calm, but the question left a knife in the air.
No one answered.
That night, the house was silent. Lena found the car keys in the hall. They drove without headlights, the children asleep in the back.
As they crossed into Wales, the hills softening in the mist, Lena smiled at Niko’s snoring.
Mrs. Thompson, awake by dawn, found the house empty. The cutlery drawer was missing its loudest fork.
