“Do you honestly expect me to cook for your mum every day?” Emily said with frustration.
“And how long is this going to continue?” Emily slammed the pan onto the stove. “Do you think I signed up to be your mum’s personal chef? Two months and not a single day off!” She gripped the wooden spoon more tightly, her knuckles whitened from tension. Her voice carried the weight of lingering resentment.
Tom stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, hesitant to step in. His wife stood by the stove, where burgers, his mum’s favourite, sizzled in the pan. The smell of frying meat and onions prickled his throat, or perhaps it was the dread of the upcoming conversation.
“Come on, Emily, why are you so worked up?” he tried to speak softly and soothingly. “Mum’s just used to homemade meals. You know she can’t have ready meals.”
“I know!” Emily banged the spoon down on the counter. “I know all about her blood pressure, her diet, and her eating schedule. But why am I the one running around like a headless chicken every evening? I have my own job!”
Outside, the October evening slowly faded. Shadows from the branches of the old apple tree danced on the walls, silent witnesses to their argument. Tom glanced at his watch – his mum would be back from her walk soon.
“Maybe we should hire some help?” he suggested uncertainly, aware of his wife’s dislike for outsiders in their home.
Emily let out a bitter laugh, “Oh sure! And how are we supposed to afford that? You know how much we already spend on her medications.”
Turning back to the stove, Emily wiped away tears quickly with a kitchen towel and began plating the burgers. Three months ago, after Joyce had moved in with them following a small stroke, Emily had insisted on it. But she hadn’t anticipated how much their lives would change.
The front door clicked open. Light footsteps – Joyce was back from her evening walk. Emily hurriedly wiped her eyes with the tea towel and began arranging the burgers on plates. Tom remained at the doorway, uncertain about what to say or do.
An uncomfortable silence settled, broken only by the clinking of dishes and the hissing of the cooling pan.
“Mum, how was your walk?” Tom eagerly headed to the hallway, thankful for a reason to escape the heavy conversation with his wife. Lately, he found himself increasingly avoiding conflicts, hiding behind work, late returns, and endless “urgent” tasks.
Joyce stood by the hallway mirror, slowly unwinding the wool scarf – a gift from her late husband. Her fingers, once nimble from years of sewing, now struggled with the simplest knot. This betraying tremor had begun after the stroke and grew more noticeable each day.
“It was a nice walk, darling,” she attempted a smile, but it came out forced. “They were clearing the leaves in the park. Remember how you loved jumping in them as a child? I’d always warn you, ‘Stop that, you’ll catch a cold!’ and you’d just laugh…”
She leaned against the wall, shutting her eyes. Her pale face and the sheen of sweat on her forehead didn’t escape her son’s attentive gaze.
“I think my blood pressure’s playing up a bit,” Joyce admitted. “I probably overdid it today.”
“I’ll get your tablets,” Emily’s voice came from the kitchen. No matter how angry she was, she took her mother-in-law’s health seriously. Years of working in a clinic, witnessing the consequences of neglected illnesses, had ingrained that in her.
“Don’t worry about it, Emily,” Joyce sank heavily onto a bench, pulling out a blister pack of tablets from her cardigan pocket. “I’ve got them right here with me now.”
Her eyes drifted to an old photograph on the wall – her and her late husband on their wedding day. How long ago that seemed… Back then, she never imagined she’d be a burden on her own son in her twilight years.
Tom dashed to the kitchen for a glass of water, nearly knocking over a floor vase on the way. Passing by his wife, he tried to catch her eye, but Emily deliberately turned towards the stove, where the burgers continued to sizzle. The smell of fried meat churned her stomach – she hadn’t eaten all day, caught between work, shopping, and cooking.
“What’s for dinner, Mum?” Joyce asked, sniffing the air as she entered the kitchen. “Burgers again? Emily, dear, why go to so much trouble? I’d have been happy with some soup…”
“It’s fine, Mum,” Emily stabbed a fork into a burger so forcefully it screeched against the pan. “You love them. I remember.”
Something in her tone made Joyce pause at the kitchen threshold. Over twenty years of her son’s marriage, she’d learned to detect the slightest tension in her daughter-in-law’s voice. Now, it resonated like a taut string.
Slowly, Joyce made her way to the table, leaning on her son’s arm. She settled down, spreading a napkin on her lap – a habit from years of teaching at school. Tom fussily slid her plate closer, checked the glass of water, made sure the chair was comfortable.
“You know…” Emily began, but stopped, noticing the pallor in her mother-in-law’s face. Unspoken words pounded in her temples. “Let’s just have dinner.”
An oppressive silence sat heavily at the dinner table. Only the clinking cutlery against plates and the rhythmic ticking of the old wall clock broke the quiet – an heirloom from Tom’s grandmother. Its mechanical sound counted down seconds to this unbearable silence. Joyce barely touched her food, casting sideways glances at both her son and daughter-in-law.
In the past month, she often noticed such glances, caught snippets of conversations, sensed how the atmosphere shifted when she entered a room.
“Was it a mistake, my moving here?” a bitter thought flitted through her mind. But aloud, she merely praised the burgers, trying to lighten the mood: “Very delicious, Emily. Just like my mum used to make…”
“I can’t keep doing this,” Emily murmured quietly, putting down her fork. “I just can’t.”
The ticking clock became overwhelmingly loud. Joyce froze with a spoon mid-air, while Tom turned pale, realizing that what he’d feared for weeks was finally happening.
“Every day is the same,” Emily’s voice grew stronger with each word. “Up at six, at work by eight. Lunch breaks spent at the pharmacy, evenings filled with shopping, cooking, cleaning… When do I live? When do I rest?”
“Dear…” Joyce began.
“I’m not your daughter!” Emily was on her feet in an instant, the chair clattering as it hit the wall. “You’ve got a son, let him cook. I’m exhausted! Understand? Ex-haus-ted!”
Tom flinched, “Emily, please…”
“What do you mean, ‘what’? What did I say that’s so wrong? The truth! You’re always at work, and I have to split myself between the hospital and home? Your mum is your responsibility!”
Joyce slowly put down her spoon. Her hands trembled more than usual. “Of course, I’m just a burden…” She dabbed at her eyes with a corner of the napkin. “You know, Emily, I do understand. You think I don’t see how tired you are? How angry? Every evening, I pray for the strength to take care of myself…”
“Mum, stop,” Tom tried to wrap an arm around his mum’s shoulders, but she gently pushed him away.
“No, Tom, let me finish,” Joyce composed herself, squaring her shoulders like she used to before a rowdy classroom. “I worked forty years in a school. Do you know the most important thing I learned? Listening. And I hear, Emily, when you cry in the bathroom. I see your hands trembling with fatigue in the evenings…”
Emily stood rigid at the stove, her fingers gripping the counter, knuckles white. Angry tears streaked her cheeks.
“But I was young once too,” Joyce continued. “I dreamed of my own life. Then my mother-in-law fell ill… I cared for her ten years. Each day a haze of work, meals, injections, treatments. My husband at work, a young son… I thought I’d go mad.”
“Mum, why are you saying this?” Tom mumbled, confused as he looked between his mother and wife.
“The point, Tom, is that you’ve got it wrong.” Joyce stood up from the table. “Entirely wrong. You can’t lay everything on Emily. Tomorrow, I’ll contact social services for a carer…”
“How are we supposed to afford that?” Emily’s voice was muted, still turned away.
“I’ll give my pension. And we could rent out the flat – it’s extra income.”
Tom looked at the two most important women in his life, feeling something inside begin to shift. He’d hidden behind his work for so long, pretending nothing was wrong…
“No,” he stood up, squaring his shoulders. “No carers. And we’re not renting out the flat.”
“But how…” Joyce began.
“Tomorrow, I’ll talk to my manager about working remotely three days a week,” Tom stated firmly. “We’ll take turns with dinner. Mum, you can teach me your special burger recipe, can’t you?”
Joyce blinked in surprise, “Of course, darling… But will you manage?”
“Believe it or not, men can cook too,” for the first time that evening, a smile glimmered in Emily’s voice. “But watch out; he likes to experiment. Remember his curry borscht?”
“Well at least it was unique!” Tom grinned, feeling the tension begin to ease.
“And I can handle the cleaning,” Joyce unexpectedly offered. “Vacuuming’s a bit much, but I can dust, tidy up – I can iron clothes too, after all, it’s what I’ve done all my life…”
“Mum,” Emily turned to the table at last, “you don’t have to…”
“And I want to!” Joyce’s eyes sparkled with a familiar teacher’s fire. “Do you think it’s easy sitting around all day doing nothing? Just watching the telly and staring out the window. This way, there’ll be some use for me.”
She suddenly sniffled, pressing a hand to her mouth: “I’m sorry, my dears… I saw how hard it was for you but I stayed silent. I was afraid to say anything.”
“And I’m sorry too,” Emily unexpectedly found herself on her knees beside Joyce’s chair, burying her face in her lap, as she had done as a child with her own mother. “I said some things… I was angry.”
Joyce gently stroked her daughter-in-law’s head, tears of her own sliding down her cheeks: “So, let’s settle this. Tom handles dinners on Tuesdays and Thursdays…”
“And every other Saturday!” her son piped up.
“And every other Saturday,” Joyce nodded. “And I’ll take the cleaning. And you, my dear,” she lifted Emily’s chin gently, “don’t keep it all inside. Speak up when it’s hard. We’re a family.”
The clock ticked away on the wall, the leftover burgers cooled on the table, and the last rays of the October sun faded outside. For the first time in many months, the house felt truly warm.
