“Do you really think I’m going to cook for your mum every day?” exclaimed Emily with frustration.
“And how long is this going to last?” Emily slammed the pan onto the stove. “Do you think I’ve signed up as your mum’s housekeeper? Not a single day off in two months!” Her grip on the wooden spatula tightened, her knuckles turning white with tension. Her voice carried the weight of an old grievance.
John paused in the kitchen doorway, hesitating to step inside. His wife stood at the stove, where burgers sizzled—his mum’s favourite dish. The aroma of fried meat and onions stung his throat, perhaps foreshadowing the heavy conversation ahead.
“Emily, why are you getting so worked up?” he tried speaking gently, soothingly. “Mum just prefers homemade meals. You know she can’t have ready meals…”
“I know!” Emily clattered the spatula onto the countertop. “I know everything! About her blood pressure, her diet, and her meal schedule. But why do I have to be spinning here every evening like a hamster on a wheel? I also have my own job!”
Outside, the October day was slowly coming to an end. Shadows from the old apple tree outside the kitchen window danced on the walls, silent witnesses to their quarrel. John glanced at his watch—his mum would be back from her walk soon.
“Perhaps we should hire some help?” he suggested uncertainly, knowing his wife didn’t like strangers in their home.
Emily scoffed bitterly, “Of course! And will money just fall from the sky? You know how much we spend on Mum’s medication.”
She turned away to the stove, hiding the tears that had sprung to her eyes. Three months ago, when Vera had moved in after her minor stroke, Emily had insisted on it. But she hadn’t envisioned how much their lives would change.
The front door shut with a soft click. Light footsteps—Vera had returned from her evening walk. Emily hurriedly dried her eyes with a kitchen towel and began plating the burgers. John still stood in the doorway, unsure of what to say or do.
A heavy silence descended, broken only by the clinking of dishes and the sizzling of the cooling pan.
“Mum, how was your walk?” John quickly walked into the hallway, relieved for the chance to escape the tense conversation with his wife. Lately, he’d often found himself avoiding conflicts, burying himself in work, with late returns and endless “urgent” matters.
Vera stood by the hallway mirror, slowly untying the wool scarf—a gift from her late husband. Her fingers, once deft and nimble, years spent crafting with the sewing machine, now struggled with the simple knot. This traitorous tremor had begun after the stroke and grew more noticeable by the day.
“It was nice, Johnny,” she tried to smile, but it came out strained. “They were clearing leaves in the park. Remember how you loved jumping in them as a child? I’d always fuss, ‘Stop that, you’ll catch a cold!’ But you just laughed…”
She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. Her pale face and the sheen of sweat on her forehead didn’t escape her son’s concerned look.
“Blood pressure’s acting up,” Vera admitted. “Probably overdid it today.”
“I’ll get your tablets,” Emily called from the kitchen. No matter her anger, she always took Vera’s health seriously. Perhaps it was her years working in the clinic, witnessing firsthand the consequences of neglected illnesses.
“Don’t trouble yourself, Emily,” Vera sat heavily on the bench, pulling a blister pack of pills from her cardigan pocket. “I carry everything with me now, like a scout. Here are my helpers…”
Her gaze caught on an old photograph on the wall—a picture of her and her husband on their wedding day. How long ago it was… She’d never imagined in her later years she’d become a burden to her son.
John scrambled into the kitchen for a glass of water, nearly knocking over a floor vase along the way. Passing his wife, he tried to catch her eye, but Emily deliberately turned towards the stove, where burgers were sizzling. The smell of fried meat made her feel queasy—she hadn’t eaten all day, caught between work, shopping, and cooking.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Vera sniffed as she walked into the kitchen. “Burgers again? Emily, why go to such lengths? I’d be happy with just some soup…”
“It’s fine, Mum,” Emily stabbed a fork into a burger with such force it creaked against the skillet’s bottom. “You like them. I remember.”
There was something in her voice that made Vera flinch and pause at the kitchen threshold. In the twenty years Emily had been her daughter-in-law, Vera had learned to detect the slightest tension in her voice. Now it vibrated like a taut string.
The elderly woman made her way slowly to the table, leaning on her son’s arm. She sat, smoothing a napkin on her lap—a habit ingrained from years of working in a school. John fussed around her, sliding over her plate, ensuring the chair was comfortable.
“You know…” Emily began but stopped, seeing how her mother-in-law paled. Words pounded in her temples, straining to be held back. “Let’s just have dinner.”
An oppressive silence settled over the table. Only the clinking of cutlery and the rhythmic ticking of the old clock on the wall—an heirloom from John’s grandmother—filled the air. Its mechanical rhythm counted the seconds of this unbearable quiet. Vera barely touched her food, glancing sideways at both her son and daughter-in-law.
Over the past month, she’d often noticed those looks, overheard snippets of conversation, and felt the atmosphere in the house change whenever she entered a room.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t have agreed to move in,” she thought painfully. Yet she only praised the burgers aloud, trying to ease the tension, “They’re delicious, Emily. Just like my mum made…”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Emily suddenly said softly, putting down her fork. “I just can’t.”
The ticking clock became deafening. Vera paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth, while John paled, sensing that what he’d feared these past weeks was about to unfold.
“Every day, the same thing,” Emily’s voice strengthened with each word. “Up at six, at work by eight. I run to the pharmacy during lunch, after work – shopping, cooking, cleaning… When do I live? Rest?”
“Dear…” Vera began.
“I’m not your daughter!” Emily abruptly stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “You have a son, let him cook. I’m exhausted! Can’t you see? Ex-haus-ted!”
John flinched. “Emily, please…”
“What?” she almost yelled. “What did I say that was so wrong? The truth! You’re always at work while I’m torn between hospital visits and home? Your mum—your responsibility!”
Vera slowly put down her spoon. Her hands shook more than usual, “Of course, I’m just a burden…” She dabbed her eyes with the corner of the napkin. “You know, Emily, I do understand. You think I don’t see how tired you are? How upset? I pray every night for the strength to take care of myself…”
“Mum, stop,” John tried to hug her, but she gently pushed him away.
“No, son, let me finish,” Vera adjusted her posture, reminiscent of her stance before a unruly class. “I worked forty years in a school. Do you know the most important thing I learned? To listen. And I hear, Emily, when you cry in the bathroom. I see your hands trembling from exhaustion in the evenings…”
Emily stood frozen by the stove, clutching the countertop with white-knuckled fingers. Angry tears streamed down her cheeks.
“I was young once, too,” Vera continued. “I also dreamed of living my own life. Then my mother-in-law fell ill… I cared for her for ten years. Every day was a blur—work, cooking, injections, procedures. My husband at work, my son so little… I thought I’d lose my mind.”
“Mum, why are you saying this?” John mumbled, bewildered, glancing from his mother to his wife.
“What I’m saying, son, is that you’re wrong.” Vera rose from the table. “Completely wrong. You can’t place everything on Emily. I’ll call social services tomorrow about hiring a carer…”
“How much will that cost?” Emily asked dully, not turning around.
“I’ll use my pension. We could rent out my flat for extra income.”
John looked at the two most important women in his life, feeling like something was churning inside him. For so many years, he’d hidden behind his job, pretending nothing was happening…
“No,” he stood, his posture firm. “No carers. We won’t rent the flat.”
“But…” Vera began.
“I’ll speak with my boss tomorrow about working from home three days a week.” John declared resolutely. “We’ll take turns cooking. Mum, you can teach me to make your famous burgers?”
Vera blinked in surprise, “Of course, dear… Are you sure you can manage?”
“Believe it or not, men can cook too,” the first hint of a smile flickered in Emily’s voice. “Just be warned, your son loves to experiment. Remember his curry borscht?”
“At least it was original!” John grinned, feeling the tension starting to ease.
“And I can handle the cleaning,” Vera unexpectedly offered. “Hoovering is tough, but I can dust, organise things—it’s totally doable. And I can iron… I’ve done it all my life…”
“Mum,” Emily finally turned towards the table. “You don’t have to…”
“But I want to!” Vera’s eyes lit with a familiar teacher’s spark. “Do you think it’s easy to sit idle all day? Watching TV and staring out the window. At least this way, I’ll be of use.”
Suddenly, she choked back a sob, pressing her hand to her mouth, “I’m sorry, dears… I saw how hard it was for you, yet I stayed silent out of fear of being a bother.”
“And forgive me,” Emily surprisingly found herself kneeling beside her mother-in-law’s chair, pressing her face into her lap as she did with her own mother as a child. “I shouldn’t have said what I did… I was just angry.”
Vera gently stroked her daughter-in-law’s hair, her tears mingling with Emily’s, “Then it’s settled. John will cook on Tuesdays and Thursdays…”
“And alternate Saturdays!” her son added.
“And alternate Saturdays,” Vera nodded. “And I’ll take on the cleaning. And also, my dear,” she lifted Emily’s chin, “don’t bottle everything up. Speak up when it’s too much. We are a family.”
The clock ticked on the wall, unfinished burgers cooled on the table, and outside the last rays of October’s sun faded away. For the first time in months, the house felt truly warm.
