Default Breakup
Itll be all right, Tom murmurs, trying to keep his voice steady. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and presses the doorbell. Tonight was always going to be difficult, but how could it be any other way? Meeting a partners parents is never easy
The door opens almost immediately. Mrs. Margaret Whitfield stands in the doorway, looking immaculate. Her hair is expertly set in a neat style, her dress is smart and understated, and her makeup is just enough to subtly enhance her features. Her gaze flicks over Emily, pauses at the tin of shortbread biscuits in Emilys hands, and she presses her lips together in a small but telling gesture. The movement is fleeting, barely perceptible, but Emily registers it.
Come in, Margaret says formally, standing aside to let them through.
Tom enters first, avoiding his mothers eye, and Emily follows, stepping gingerly over the threshold. The house greets them with soft lighting and the faint smell of sandalwood. Everything is perfectly arrangednothing out of place, no wayward book, no scarf tossed over a chair. Every item stands perfectly to attention; each detail quietly insists on order and control.
Margaret leads them into the sitting rooma generous space with a wide sash window, thick cream curtains drawn shut against the evening. A heavy, expensive sofa dominates the centre, upholstered in pale blue brocade, with a low walnut coffee table gleaming beside it. Margaret gestures to the sofa by way of invitation.
Tea? Coffee? she asks, still not meeting Emilys gaze. Her tone is cool, emotionless, as if hosting is nothing more than an obligation.
Id love some tea, thank you, Emily replies politely, masking her nerves with a practiced smile. She sets the tin of biscuits on the table, undoes the ribbon, and lifts the lid just enough to let the scent of homemade shortbread drift into the room. I brought some biscuits, I made them myselfif youd like to try.
Margaret considers the offering for a moment before giving a brief nod. Thank you, she says, turning briskly toward the kitchen. Ill bring the tea.
As soon as she is out of earshot, Tom leans closer and whispers, Sorry, shes always like this a bit cold.
Its all right, Emily answers, squeezing his hand. What matters is youre here.
The house feels costly and pristine, yet theres a chilly unfamiliarity to it, like stepping into a well-kept show home rather than someones actual living space.
Margaret returns not long after, carrying a tray with finest china teacups rimmed with delicate bluebells, a small silver teapot, and a plate with Emilys shortbread neatly arranged. She sets the tray down, pours the tea with careful, deliberate movements, and settles into an armchair, her hands folded primly in her lap.
So, Emily, Margaret begins, scrutinising the younger woman with studied precision. Her gaze lingers over Emilys face, her hair, even the way she holds her cup. Tom tells me youre at unistudying to become a nursery teacher, is that right?
YesIm in my third year, Emily nods, setting her cup on the saucer so her hands wont tremble. I love working with children. Its rewarding, helping little ones grow and learn. Thats really important to me.
With children, hmm, Margaret repeats, one eyebrow just arching. Well, it sounds noble. But you do realise the salaries for nursery teachers are quite modest? These days, people need to think about financial stability.
Tom stiffens. Mum, why does it always come down to money? Emily loves her workthats what matters. The rest itll come right, well support one another. Thats the main thing.
Margaret turns to him, but delays her reply, sipping her tea thoughtfully, her eyes never softening. Finally she turns back to Emily. Its wonderful to love your job, she says, measured and calm, but sometimes love alone doesnt pay the bills. Do you have any plans for after you finish? Where will you be working?
Emily inhales, bracing herself. She knows this isnt idle curiosity, but a test. I dowell, Ive thought about it a lot, she says. I want to start off with a local nursery, to gain some proper experience. Then, maybe, Ill take extra training to specialise working with children with additional needs. Its not easy, but I honestly feel its what Im meant to do.
Margaret nods once, oddly pensive. She watches Emily steadily, still weighing her.
Im not expecting Tom to support me, Emily adds. I want to have my own career, to be independent. I believe we can build a strong family together, where both of us give our sharemoney isnt everything; finding meaning in what you do matters.
A different attitude, Margaret remarks, tipping her head ever so slightly. But have you ever thought of a career that pays more? With your abilitieswell, you might consider sales, marketing, something commercial. Those roles can be quite lucrative.
Tom opens his mouth to interject, but Emily gently signals him to let her answer. She senses its important to speak for herself.
What do you do, Mrs. Whitfield? she asks, surprising even herself with the sudden question. Her voice is steady and clear.
Margaret is caught off guard, flinching very slightly. Im I dont work, actually, she answers after a short hesitation. My husband provides for the family. I run the household and help him with arrangements, keep things running smoothly. Thats work too, even if no one pays for it.
I see, Emily says, voice gaining in confidence. So if you chose a life without a job, why should I be forced to go after a higher salary? Why cant I do what brings me real purpose? Im not asking Tom to look after me!
This time, a heavy silence settles over the room. Margaret holds Emilys gaze, reassessing her.
My husband wanted me to stay home; he could provide for us, you see. But Tom
Tom squirms on the sofa, his discomfort plain. He glances at his motherbut her expression is unreadablethen at Emily, who sits tall and proud, yet with a hint of uncertainty in her eyes.
Emily, you understand he starts, faltering over his words. His voice is softer than he meant, almost trapped in his throat. Mum wants whats best for us. She just doesnt want us to struggle, thats all
Emily stares at him, shocked. Hed stood by her, a moment ago. Now, it seems hes slipped to his mothers side. Her heart aches.
So you agree with her? she checks, forcing her voice even. You think I shouldnt do the job I love? That its wrong to want to enjoy my work? That I should just settle for what pays best?
Well not exactly Tom groans, twisting his fingers. But Mums right; we have to think of the future. We cant just live for nowwe have to be practical about money, about home life
Margaret now gives her son a look of approvalbarely noticeable, but Tom feels it all the same. Then she turns back to Emily, hands folded tighter, tone a little softer but no less insistent:
Tell me, Emily, do you really expect my son to abandon his ambition? Hes always dreamed of being a journalisttravelling, writing stories. Its more than just work for him; its his passion. Will he have to let go of all that, just to be the main provider?
Emily opens her mouth, but Tom jumps in first.
Mum, I
No, Tom, honestly she cuts him off sharply, eyes fixed on her son are you truly willing to give up your dream for this girl? Will you give up travel, projects, your real calling?
Tom falls silent. He looks at Emilyher eyes glisten with hurt, but she says nothing, letting him work out what he wants to say. Inside, he feels torn: one part wants to shield Emily and promise theyll manage together, another part wonders if his mother is rightif giving up ambitions really is the price for reality.
I He falters, then breathes deeply. I dont want to let go of my dream. But I dont want to lose Emily either. Well find a way to balance things. I can still be a journalist, if not so much as before, and Emily will support me just as I support her.
Margaret sighs, shakes her head, but doesnt argue further. She leans back in her chair, indicating shes said her piece and now waits to see how it all plays out.
What an interesting perspective, Emily utters, suddenly finding her voice, the disappointment in her fiancés lack of support sharp. So Tom isnt expected to compromise, but I am? I should be the one chasing higher pay while Tom gets to enjoy his dream job? Doesnt seem fair, does it?
Tom drops his gaze, nervously fiddling with his cup. His hands shake, the cup rattling softly in the saucer. Thoughts spin chaotically insidehe doesnt know what to say to please everyone at once.
Well, well have to work something out he mumbles, peering into the cup as if it might solve his problems.
Work something out? Margaret echoes with a thin smile, irony crisp. You know as well as I do, life doesnt work like that. You cant have it both ways.
Her words hang heavily, the authority of lived experience behind every syllable, a gentle condemnation of youthful optimism.
Tom swallows. He wants to argue, to say times are different, that couples now find ways to share both work and home, but the words get stuck. His mothers look has a way of making him feel like a foolish schoolboy.
I think thats enough for tonight, Margaret concludes, rising with the same serene elegance she brings to everything. Its late, and its not especially safe after dark around here. Emily, its best you head home now. Tomcome to the kitchen, we need a serious talk, immediately.
Theres no room for dispute; this is more a command than advice.
Tom tries to protest: Mum, maybe I should see Emily home? At least to the bus stop
Absolutely not! she snaps, not turning around. Id worry. Stay here.
Tom deflates. His shoulders sink, hands limp. He knows better than to challenge his mother.
Sorry, Emily, he murmurs, eyes lowered. Its probably for the best if I dont walk you. Call a cab, all right?
Emily nods quietly. She doesnt argue or plead. She simply puts her cup down, picks up her small shoulder bag, and gets to her feet.
All right, she says, calm though her insides boil with anger and disappointment. Ill be off then.
She stands, straightens her cardigansomehow the ritual helps compose her thoughts. She doesnt try to smile now; it would feel false, redundant. What she wants most is simply to leave this house, where everything reminds her how out of place she is.
Thank you for the tea, she says, polite but colder, not bothering to hide it. Its no longer about making a good impressionjust courtesy.
Good evening, Margaret answers shortly, still not looking at her. Shes already moved on, Emily no longer registers as worthy of attention.
Emily makes her way to the door. She moves unhurriedly, under perfect control, even though every step tightens the tension inside her. At the threshold, she glances backTom sits slouched on the sofa, shoulders hunched. He doesnt meet her eyes, doesnt rise to see her out, says nothing. That silence confirms everything for Emily.
She steps into the night air, breathing in the cool dampness. It scours away some of the tension, but not the twisting mass of anger and hurt in her chest. Resentment, frustration, sorrowall churn together, squeezing her throat. It is now clear: Tom will always side with his mother, even if it means being against her.
Emily walks down the pavement, slowly at first, then picking up pace, as if she might outrun the thoughts chasing her. But they are there: He didnt even defend me. Didnt tell her he respected my choice. Pleasing her is more important to him than supporting me. She doesnt realise how quickly her hands clench in her jacket pockets, how hard her steps become. A scream presses on her chest, but instead she bites her lip, holding back tears.
She gets home in near-darkness. The street is empty, lamp posts scattering weak light across damp tarmacthe rain not long past. Emily locks the front door behind her, slips off her shoes, and sinks onto a stool in the hallway. Silence enfolds her like a heavy blanket. At last, in the sanctuary of her flat, she is free to breathe, let go, stop pretending.
For minutes, she stares at nothing, feeling the storm inside slowly quiet. Her thoughts settle, grow clearer. She knowsthis isnt the end of the world. Its only the end of a story that, perhaps, was never meant to be. She takes a steady breath. Tomorrow will dawn, bringing new chances. And she knows she will manage.
*******************
The next day, Emily ignores Toms calls. Her phone buzzes in her coat pocket, and each time she glances at the screen, she refuses the call, sliding it away. She needs space to gather herself, to decide what she wants. The same thoughts loop in her mindeven if they stay together, it means forever competing with his mother. And Tom Tom will always be torn, never able to choose. She imagines their future: every discussion, every decisionall seen through Margaret Whitfields prism. That prospect fills her with dread.
Over the following days, Emily sticks to her routines: attending lectures, ploughing through assignments, lounging with her friends. Its all mechanical, though; every so often her mind returns to that evening, to Toms silence, to the moment he failed to take her side.
A few days pass. On the walk home from uni, Emily spies a familiar figure at the end of her street. Shes about to let herself in, when she hears, Emily!
She turns. Tom stands by the gate, hunched, hands rammed in his jacket, eyes full of apology but absent their usual spark. He shuffles closer, as if afraid shell turn away before he gets his words out.
We need to talk, he begins, looking at the ground rather than her. Mums made it clear well, she thinks were not right for each other.
Emilys eyebrow lifts. She steels herself, keeping her expression neutral.
And what do you think? she asks, her tone steady.
He hesitates, gaze dropping to the cracks in the pavement. Shes my mum, he finally manages, shrugging helplessly. She just worries about me. I dont want to upset her.
Theres no conviction, just a hint of defeat. Its not an explanation, just an excuse. Emily regards him, searching his face for any sign of resolve, but finds nothing.
So you do agree with her? she asks, already suspecting the answer.
Im not saying that, Tom blurts out, lifting his eyes. But shes my family. I cant just turn my back on her.
He stops, expecting her to offer some solution, to patch things over herself. But Emily waits. The thought blooms in her mind: What if nothing will ever change? What if every time it matters, hell look to her first? If Im always second place?
Do you want to be with me? she asks, searching his eyes.
He hesitates again, mouth working silently. At last, he sighs and his shoulders droop, the answer plain.
Emily nods once, more to herself. She doesnt push, doesnt plead. She turns and walks to the door, leaving Tom standing alone on the pavement.
He watches her disappear inside, feeling a hollow ache. He wants to call after her, but there are no words left. Only silence, his hands knotted in his jacket, his mind full of doubt.
That evening, Emily goes for a short walk. Her road is quiet, the air thick with the scent of autumnleaves, rain, the freshness of the change in seasons. She wanders, not thinking of where shes going, letting her feet lead.
And then, unexpectedly, she laughsa light, careless sound, irrepressible. She stands under a streetlamp, looks at the twinkling lights in the distance, and realises: no matter what comes, shell face it. Because now she understandsshe doesnt have to live up to anyone elses expectations, doesnt have to justify herself, or prove her worth. Shes free. And thats what truly matters.
