Do I get a say in this? Then you wont see a single penny from me! My motherinlaw freezes as I slam my hand onto the kitchen table.
Emily perches on the edge of the sofa as if it were a tightrope. Below her sits the pricey leather set she bought herselfsomething my motherinlaw, Agnes Whitfield, has been calling highstreet gaudiness for months. George, meanwhile, lounges in an armchair, one leg over the other, cracking crackers despite being far past the age when that was excusable. At thirtyeight, a father of two, he still cracks snacks like a schoolboy in the playground.
Well, Ethel, Agnes says with a sly tone, loudly setting a pot of peaandham soup on the table, George and I have talked it over and decided: lets sell your little car. You work nearby anyway, but Lydia needs to get to the clinic somehow. She cant exactly hop on a bus with a baby bump, can she?
Talked it over, Ethel mutters silently. So Im just the yard dog hereleashed and led wherever they decide.
Did you ask me? she replies evenly, her voice cold enough to freeze water, locking eyes with her motherinlaw.
Whats there to ask? the older woman sniffs, ladling herself some soup. In our family, if anyones in trouble, everyone pitches in. Thats normal. I raised my son on that principle. But youyou only ever think of yourself
Without looking up from his phone, George mumbles, Ethel, you know Lydias pregnant, its hard for her now It wont be forever. Once shes on her feet again, well give it back.
Give it back? Ethel suddenly smirks. Will you put that in writing? Or will it be like that kitchen loanstill under your mums name after five years of just longterm safekeeping?
What kind of person are you? Agnes snaps. Im not your enemy! Im your mother! You should be offering help, not sitting here like a sulky princess! Everythings wrong for you, everythings unfair!
Ethel stands. No shouting, no drama. Just done. Shes spent too long pretending not to notice how lovingly this family clips her wings. Without a word, she walks into the bedroom. Thats when the chorus starts:
Shes mad? her motherinlaw stagewhispers loudly, as if Ethel were deaf.
Ethel, seriously? George calls. Dont be so harsh. Mum probably didnt mean it that way
I spoke as a mother! Agnes declares. If she doesnt get that, then shes not one of us. She doesnt fit in this family.
A few minutes later, Ethel returns holding the car documents. She places them on the table.
Heres the deal. The car is mine, registered in my name. The flat, by the way, I inherited from my grandmothernone of you have any claim to it. Thats my entire contribution to your version of family.
Youre going to ruin everything over a piece of metal?! Agnes cries.
Noover you, Ethel says, nodding. Over your endless control, and over your cowardly compliance, George.
Ethel, wait, George groans, holding his head. We just wanted to help Lydia
Then sell your garage with the 03 Ford, Ethel says with a sharp smile. You can definitely take taxisyou wont fall apart.
Her motherinlaw bangs her spoon against her bowl.
Youre not a wife, youre a businesswoman. All you think about is property and papers. No heart, no conscience.
And youre nothing but love and compassion? Ethel shoots back. Funny how its always at my expense. Astonishing kind of charity youve got.
She slips into the bathroom, shuts the door to breathe. Inside she tremblesnot from fear, but from rage.
A couple of hours later George comes into the bedroom. No crackers, no phone, no pride.
Ethel lets talk.
Too late, George. Too late to sip tea after your mum sold the kidneys. You didnt even flinch when she was plotting how to get rid of my car. What was that?
I didnt want a fight
You never want anythingexcept peace and quiet. And that quiet always means you stay silent while I surrender my rights, my property, and my common sense.
George exhales heavily. Lets talk tomorrow. Like adults. Well sit down, sort it out. Dont get heated.
Ethel looks him straight in the eye. Are you still my man, George? Or have you been your mothers for a long time now?
He says nothing.
The flat is silent. Even the pot of soup has gone cold.
The next morning Ethel wakes earlier than usual. Sunlight streams through the window, bold as if it knows today is a turning point. George snores on the kitchen couch, as if nothing has happened, as if he just won an argument about curtain colours, not sold her out to his mother.
She pours herself a coffee, careful not to clink the cupsnot out of respect, but out of principle. Noise is emotion. Today she is steel.
Enough. They wont get another inch of her life.
Agnes sweeps into the kitchendoesnt walk, but glides inwearing a houserobe, a hairnet, and a face full of accusations.
Well, mistress of the flat, she sneers, did you sleep well in your rightful square metres?
Ethel turns to her silently, her gaze so sharp that if Agnes had any sense she would walk straight out. But nofoolish bravery is the most destructive kind.
Ive been thinking, the older woman continues, sitting down at the table and reaching for Ethels cup. Maybe you just dont understand how a family works. In my day, if a man was struggling, his wife stood behind him like a rock. Youre more like a cemetery clerkcounting who gets what.
Lovely metaphor, Ethel says calmly, taking her cup back. Except Im not at a cemeteryIm in a marriage. Or I was.
Oh, the drama, Agnes snorts. Like a soap opera. Dont you think youre overdoing it, Ethel?
At that moment George shuffles in, scratching his head, wearing the sweatpants Ethel wanted to throw out two years ago.
Mum, are you starting again? he mumbles.
And youre silent again? Ethel snaps, turning to him. No, Georgeright now. Choose. Right now.
Dont dramatise, he mutters, trying to sound wise. We can work this out. Like adults.
Then act like one. Im asking: who are you? My husband, or an extension of your mothers kitchen?
Agnes stands, her voice icy. Son, tell me plainlyis she more important to you than your mother? I raised you. Fed you. Married you to her. And this is how it is?
George stands there like a donkey at a crossroads, as if choosing between two supermarkets with only one coupon.
Ethel steps closer. You know what hurts most? Not that you dont defend me. Its that you defend them. And you stay silent, as if youre not even part of itjust a spectator. As if this marriage is a TV show, not your life.
I didnt want a war he mumbles.
This isnt war. Its an escape. Im leaving. Actuallyyoure leaving.
We?
Ethel opens the hall closet, pulls out his bag, tosses his shirts in. Five minutes. Or I start throwing things out myself. What matters moreyour mum, or this flat? Leave the keys on the table. And take the soupits hers. You can have a taste.
George looks at her like a cat staring at a closed fridgehoping someone might open it.
Ethel
Too late, George. I no longer believe youll ever grow up. Forty and still under the skirt. I dont need a son like that. Certainly not a husband.
Agnes slams the bedroom door, then returns with her own bagstuffed with blood pressure, control, advice, and the eternal line: In our house, we never did things that way.
Fifteen minutes later theyre gone. Ethel stands by the door like after a fire. It smells of soup, but she wants a cigarette.
She goes to the kitchen, takes a wineglass from the cupboard, pours herself a drink, looks out the window. Its rainingjust like in the movies.
And suddenly it feels funny. She smilesfirst a corner of her mouth, then out loud.
And noIm not a cemetery clerk. Im the mistress of my own life. Finally.
