“Do you really think I’m going to cook for your mother every day?” said Sarah indignantly.
“And how long is this going to continue?” Sarah slammed the frying pan onto the stove. “Am I here as your mother’s housekeeper? Two months without a single day off!” Her grip tightened on the wooden spatula, her knuckles turning white. Her voice carried an old resentment.
John hesitated in the kitchen doorway, unsure whether to step in. His wife was at the stove, where patties—his mother’s favorite—sizzled away. The smell of fried meat and onions tickled his throat—or maybe it was the weight of the conversation that loomed.
“Sarah, why are you getting so worked up?” he tried to speak gently, soothingly. “Mum is just used to homemade meals. You know she can’t have ready meals…”
“I know!” Sarah slammed the spatula on the countertop. “I know it all! About her blood pressure, diet, eating schedule. But why should I be running around here every evening like a hamster on a wheel? I have my own job!”
Outside, the October evening was slowly fading away. Shadows from the old apple tree by the kitchen window danced across the walls, silent witnesses to their quarrel. John glanced at his watch—his mom would soon be back from her walk.
“Perhaps we should hire some help?” he suggested hesitantly, aware that his wife was against strangers in the house.
Sarah gave a bitter laugh. “Of course! And the money for that help will just fall from the sky, right? You know how much we spend on your mum’s medication.”
She turned away to the stove, hiding the tears that had risen. Three months ago, when Margaret moved in after her mini-stroke, Sarah had insisted on it herself. But she never imagined how much their lives would change.
The front door closed with a soft thud. Light footsteps—Margaret returned from her evening walk. Sarah quickly wiped her eyes with a kitchen towel and began plating up the patties. John still hovered in the doorway, unsure of what to say or do.
An uncomfortable silence settled, broken only by the clatter of dishes and the sizzling of the cooling pan.
“Mum, how was your walk?” John hurried to the hallway, glad of the chance to avoid the heavy conversation with his wife. Lately, he found himself avoiding conflicts, hiding behind work, late evenings, and endless “urgent” tasks.
Margaret stood at the mirror in the hallway, slowly untying a woolen scarf—a gift from her late husband. Her once nimble fingers, skilled from years at the sewing machine, now struggled with simple tasks. This betraying tremor had appeared after the stroke and only grew more noticeable by the day.
“It was nice, Johnny,” she tried to smile, but it came out strained. “They were clearing the leaves in the park. Remember how you used to love jumping in them as a kid? I always scolded you, ‘Stop, you’ll catch a cold!’ And you’d just laugh…”
She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes. The pallor of her face and the sweat on her forehead didn’t escape her son’s attentive gaze.
“My blood pressure’s acting up,” Margaret admitted. “Guess I overdid it today.”
“I’ll get your tablets,” Sarah called from the kitchen. No matter how upset she was, she took her mother-in-law’s health seriously—years working in a clinic had taught her the consequences of neglected illnesses.
“Don’t fuss, Sarah,” Margaret settled heavily onto the hallway bench, taking a packet of pills from her cardigan pocket. “I carry them everywhere now, like a scout. Here they are, my little helpers…”
Her gaze lingered on an old photograph on the wall—her and her husband on their wedding day. How long ago that was… Back then, she couldn’t imagine becoming a burden to her own son in her old age.
John hurried to the kitchen for a glass of water, almost knocking over a floor vase on the way. Passing his wife, he tried to catch her eye, but Sarah deliberately turned back to the stove, where the patties were sizzling. The smell of fried meat made her nauseous—she hadn’t eaten all day, caught between work, the shops, and cooking.
“What’s for dinner tonight?” Margaret sniffed as she entered the kitchen. “Patties again? Dear, you shouldn’t go to so much trouble. I’d be fine with some soup…”
“It’s fine, Mum,” Sarah stabbed a fork into a patty with such force it squealed against the pan. “You love these. I remember.”
Her voice held something that made Margaret flinch and freeze at the kitchen’s threshold. In twenty years of her son’s marriage, she’d learned to detect even the slightest tension in her daughter-in-law’s voice. Now that tension hummed like a tight string.
The elder woman slowly moved to the table, leaning on her son’s arm. She sat down, smoothing a napkin over her lap—a habit ingrained over years working in a school. John fussily pushed her plate closer, along with a glass of water, checking if her chair was comfortable.
“You know…” Sarah started but stopped upon noticing her mother-in-law’s pale face. Her temples throbbed with unspoken words. “Let’s just have dinner.”
An oppressive silence filled the room. Only the clinking of cutlery on plates and the steady ticking of the wall clock—an old heirloom from John’s grandmother—broke it. The mechanical sound counted down the seconds of this unbearable quiet. Margaret barely touched her food, glancing sidelong at both her son and daughter-in-law.
In the past month, she often caught such glances, overheard snippets of conversation, noticed the change in the house’s atmosphere whenever she entered a room.
“Maybe it was a mistake to move in,” she thought bitterly. But aloud, she only praised the patties, trying to ease the tension. “Delicious, Sarah. Just like my mother used to make…”
“I can’t do this anymore,” Sarah suddenly spoke quietly, letting her fork fall. “I just can’t.”
The clock’s ticking became deafening. Margaret froze with a spoon halfway to her mouth, and John paled, sensing that what he feared was about to happen.
“It’s the same thing every day,” Sarah’s voice grew stronger with each word. “I wake up at six, at work by eight. Over lunch, I rush to the pharmacy for meds, after work it’s the store, cooking, cleaning… When do I live? When do I rest?”
“Dear…” Margaret began.
“I’m not your daughter!” Sarah snapped, rising sharply and sending her chair skidding into the wall. “You have a son; let him do the cooking. I’m exhausted! Do you understand? Ex-hausted!”
John flinched: “Sarah, please…”
“What? What did I say that’s so wrong? The truth! You’re always busy with work, and I’m supposed to juggle between hospitals and home? Your mum, your responsibility!”
Margaret slowly set her spoon down. Her hands shook more than usual. “Of course, I’m just a burden…” She dabbed her eyes with a corner of the napkin. “You know, Sarah, I do understand. Do you think I don’t see how tired you are? How frustrated? I pray every evening for the strength to take care of myself…”
“Mum, stop,” John tried to hug her shoulders, but she gently moved away.
“No, son, let me finish,” Margaret straightened, as she used to do before facing a rowdy class. “I worked fifteen years at a school, you know what it taught me the most? To listen. And I hear, Sarah, how you cry in the bathroom. I see your hands tremble at night from exhaustion…”
Sarah stood frozen by the stove, her white-knuckled grip on the counter releasing angry tears down her cheeks.
“I was young once too,” Margaret continued. “I dreamed of my own life. Then my mother-in-law became bedridden… Ten years I cared for her. Every day felt like a fog—work, cooking, injections, procedures. My husband was at work, our son so small… I thought I’d go mad.”
“Mum, what are you talking about?” John mumbled, glancing between his mother and wife.
“What I’m saying, son, is you’re wrong.” Margaret stood up from the table. “Completely wrong. You can’t put this all on Sarah. I’ll call tomorrow to find out about getting a carer…”
“What will that cost?” Sarah asked, her voice flat, not turning around.
“My pension will cover it. And we can rent out the flat for extra income.”
John looked at the two most important women in his life and felt something shift within. For years he’d hidden behind work, pretending nothing was wrong…
“No,” he stood, squaring his shoulders. “No carers. And we’re not renting the flat.”
“But how…” Margaret began.
“I’ll speak with my boss tomorrow,” John said firmly, “about working remotely three days a week. We can take turns cooking. Mum, you can teach me how to make your special patties, right?”
Margaret blinked in surprise. “Of course, son… But can you manage?”
“Believe it or not, men can cook,” Sarah finally let a smile slip through her voice. “But beware, your son loves to experiment. Remember his curry borscht?”
“Well, it was original!” John grinned, feeling the tension slowly lift.
“And I can help with the cleaning,” Margaret unexpectedly offered. “Vacuuming is tough, but I can dust and sort things. I can iron as well—I’ve done it all my life…”
“Mum,” Sarah interrupted, turned at last from the stove, “you don’t have to…”
“But I want to!” The familiar spark of a teacher flashed in Margaret’s eyes. “Do you know how hard it is to do nothing all day? Just watching TV or staring out the window. I’d be happy to help.”
She suddenly gasped and covered her mouth with a hand: “I’m sorry, kids… I saw how tough it’s been for you both, yet I stayed silent. I was afraid to say anything.”
“And I’m sorry too,” Sarah dropped to her knees beside her mother-in-law’s chair, resting her head in Margaret’s lap as she once did with her own mum as a child. “I said things… I was just so angry.”
Margaret gently stroked her daughter-in-law’s head, tears mingling with her own. “Then that’s settled. John will cook on Tuesdays and Thursdays…”
“And every other Saturday!” her son added.
“And every other Saturday,” Margaret nodded. “I’ll handle the cleaning. And Sarah, love,” she lifted her chin, “don’t keep it all inside. Speak up when it gets too much. We are a family, after all.”
The clock ticked away on the wall, the patties sat cooling on the table, and outside, the last rays of October sun were gently fading. For the first time in months, warmth filled their home.
