Go ahead and badmouth your mother all you like, but if you utter even a single word about my mum that I dislikeyoull be out of my flat this instant! I wont be tiptoeing around you, love!
Mark, Im sorry to intrude, whispered Mrs. Margaret Whitfield, her voice soft as a moths wing, as if begging for an impossible favour. She lingered in the kitchen doorway, hands speckled with flour, clasped together. The door to my room it groans horrifically. I got up for a glass of water last night and nearly leapt out of my skin. Could you oil the hinges when you have a moment? If it isnt too much trouble, of course.
Mark didnt lift his eyes from the bright screen in his hand. He was sprawled on the sofa that blended the living room and kitchen, thumb lazily scrolling a news feed. In response to his motherinlaws plea he emitted a low, guttural mmhmm, something between acknowledgement and leave me be. That was enough for Mrs. Whitfield to know shed been heard; she slipped back to her bedroom, shutting the door with a long, mournful squeal from the hinges.
Emma, who was wiping the countertops, tightened. The flat already felt suffocating, as if the very air had been drawn out. All week her mother had been staying, and Mark wore a permanent scowl, as though a jackhammer throbbed beneath his window. He never flared up; he simply radiated a sticky, silent displeasure. The rustle of the newspaper his mother read, the faint scent of menthol balm in the hallway, even the length of her morning showersall grated on him. His silence roared louder than any shout.
He set his phone down with a thud like a stone hitting the floor.
Your old hag is going to dictate how this house runs now, he murmured, bile seeping into his tone, making Emma flinch. He stared at the wall as if confiding in an invisible ally.
She just asked, Mark, Emma tried to keep her voice steady, laying down the cloth and turning to him. The door truly creaks so badly it wakes you at night. I meant to ask you myselfI just forgot.
She just asked, he mimicked, pulling a sour grin. Of course. Shes turned this place into a spa for herself, sprawling out, then laying down the law. Oil the door, then what? Dim the telly when she decides to rest? Tiptoe around?
It was petty and petty. Mrs. Whitfield behaved as quiet as a mouse, leaving her room only to eat or visit the doctor. Most of the time she stayed put so as not to, God forbid, disturb the young. She feared being a burdenyou could feel it in every hesitant movement, every soft word.
Please stop. Shes here for a week for tests. It isnt forever, Emma pleaded, still hoping for peace. She already feels guilty for being in the way.
In our way? Mark finally turned his head, a cold irritation flashing in his eyes. Its me shes cramping! I cant relax in my own home! Im always imagining someone listening through the walls, expecting something. Always that smell of medicine. Always that disapproving stare. Nothing suits her.
He rose, drifted into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into its emptiness, then slammed it shut.
Exactly. A whole week of this charade. Let the door keep creaking. Maybe then shell stay in her den less often.
He slipped his headphones on, collapsed back onto the sofa, and vanished into his phone. It was more than a fightit was an ultimatum veiled in indifference. Emma stood alone in the kitchen, the soft, plaintive creak of the door echoing again as her mother padded to the bathroom. The sound grated on her worse than any insult.
Evening thickened into a murky, inky gel. Dinner passed in nearsilence, broken only by the delicate clink of cutlery. Mrs. Whitfield ate her portion of mushy peas and a chicken cutlet with guilty haste, thanked them, and fled back to her room. The final, mournful creak of the door sounded like the last chord of a funeral march. Mark finished his food, chewing with exaggerated gusto, as if nothing could touch him. Emma merely picked at her cooling cutlet.
Mark, we need to talk, Emma began, setting her fork down, voice even, almost pleading. She made one last attempt to reach his reason.
What about? he didnt look up. I think I made everything perfectly clear this afternoon. My stance hasnt changed.
Your stance? Emma forced a bitter smile. Your stance is to torment an elderly woman with silence and passive aggressionsomeone who came into this strange flat out of necessity? Thats not a stance, Mark. Thats pettiness.
He dropped his fork, the clatter harsh and ugly.
Pettiness? Pettiness is dragging her here for a week and pretending nothings happening! She walks around with that look as if we owe her our lives. Always sighing, always dissatisfied. Today its the door; tomorrow shell say I breathe too loudly. This will never end!
She hasnt said a word to you! Shes afraid to leave her room!
Exactly! She does everything silently! Thats worse! She looks at me like Im a piece of rubbish in her daughters way! Thats her signature I can smell it a mile off. Always suffering, always the victim so everyone feels guilty. My mothers the same. One for one. Always dissatisfied, always reproaching with just a glance. And you know what, Emma? The apple doesnt fall far from the tree
He didnt finish. Emma rose slowly from the table. Something in her face shifted so sharply that Mark fell silent midsentence. The warmth left her eyes, replaced by dark, unreadable wells. The calm she had so carefully curated crumbled to dust, giving way to something cold, sharp, and dangerous.
What did you say? she whispered, a hiss more frightening than a scream.
Mark smirked, a clammy chill rising inside him. He thought hed broken through her defences and should strike while the iron was hot.
Exactly what I said. Youre becoming her exact copy. The same constant dissatisfaction, disguised as
He stopped again. She stepped around the table, stood directly before him, close enough to see a tiny scar on her eyebrow. Her face was as if carved from pale marble.
Go on badmouthing your mother all you like, but if you utter another word about my mum that I dislikeyoure out of my flat this instant. I wont stand on ceremony with you, love.
She leaned even closer, eyes drilling into his.
You live here. In MY flat. You eat the food I cook. You sleep in the bed I bought. You enjoy my hospitality. Until now I considered you my husband. Right now youre just a lodger. A lodger whos forgotten his place. So let me remind you. One more crooked wordone sidelong glancetoward my mother, and your things will be in the stairwell. Understand?
Mark stared, unable to form a word. His brain refused to process it. The woman who minutes ago had begged for peace was now a strangermerciless, calm, laying out the terms of his continued existence. Instinctively he shrank back until his back hit the wall. The power in the flat had shifted, irrevocably.
He said nothing. He couldnt. The words hurled at him were not just threatsthey were cold facts, final sentences. All his swagger, all his feigned headofhouse pomp fell away like cheap gilding, leaving a bewildered, humiliated man. He looked at Emma, and there was nothing in her eyes to latch onto: no anger, no hurt, not even hatred. Only emptinessthe efficient, icy emptiness of someone who has erased you from her life and is now dealing with the logistics of your continued presence. Slowly, like an old man, he edged away from her and sank back onto the chair he had just leapt from.
Without another glance, Emma turned away. She returned to the table, silently lifted the plates, and carried them to the sink. Her movements were precise, economical, as if performing a longlearned ritual. She turned on the tap; hot water hissed over the dirty dishes. She squeezed a drop of detergent onto a sponge and began to wash the plates in steady circles. The squeak of sponge on porcelain, the rush of waterordinary sounds became deafening in the new silence. They were a declaration that the incident was over, that lifeher lifewould continue on her terms.
Mark sat motionless, staring at his wifes back. He felt gutted. His whole sense of himselfas a man, as head of the familyhad been crushed into the linoleum. He had always thought of this flat as his. Yes, it had come to Emma from her grandmother, but he lived here, slept in this bedhe was her husband, after all. Turns out that was an illusion. He wasnt a husband; he was a guest. A guest whose right to stay had just been called into question.
Emma washed the dishes, set them neatly on the rack, and dried her hands. She passed him without a glance and slipped into the bedroom. Minutes later she emerged with a blanket and a pillow, dropping them silently on the sofa as if laying down a mat for a dog. She then returned to the bedroom, closed the door, and the click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the apartments hush.
The night stretched long. Mark didnt sleep. He lay on the sofawhich suddenly felt foreign and uncomfortableand stared at the ceiling. Humiliation burned in him with a cold fire, refusing to let him drift off. He replayed her words, her stare, her calm, cruel actions. The more he thought, the more a dark, impotent rage boiled inside him.
Morning brought no relief. Emma emerged from the bedroom already dressed, ready to go. She went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, took yoghurt and cottage cheese from the fridge, moving through her domain with confidence. Mark rose, feeling rumpled and sore, and headed to the kitchen hoping for a cup of coffee, some return to normalcy.
Emma poured boiling water into two mugs. In one she dropped a chamomile tea bag; into the other she spooned a little sugar. Then, without a word, she carried both mugs into her mothers room. The door closed behind her, this time without a creakshe held it from inside so as not to disturb the flats peace. Mark was left at the empty table. No coffee for him. He was furniture, a piece of décor.
Ten minutes later Emma emerged with her mother. Mrs. Whitfield was pale, eyes fixed on the floor, as if she hadnt slept at all. Mum, are you ready? We should be off to the GP soon, Emma said evenly, drained of colour, speaking as if Mark didnt exist.
They dressed in the hallway. Emma helped her mother fasten her coat and straighten her scarf. The tender care was another punch to Marks guta demonstration of who mattered and who didnt. When the front door shut behind them, Mark was left alone in a deafeningly quiet flat. He drifted into the kitchen, looked at the door to his motherinlaws roomthe source of the whole nightmare. Something misshapen and vicious stirred in his soul, promising this was far from over.
They returned close to noon, tired and silent. Mark heard the key turn in the lock and tensed on the sofa. He had spent the whole day in that quiet flat, which had become a torture chamber. Every piece of furniture seemed to mock him, reminding him of his degraded position. He hadnt turned on the TV or played music. He simply sat there nursing his rage, stoking it to a white heat. He waited. He didnt know for what exactly, but he felt an explosion was inevitable.
Emma and Mrs. Whitfield came back carrying the faint, sterile smell of the clinic. Emma went straight to the kitchen to set down her bag, and her mother, slowly, with a certain elderly caution, took off her coat in the hallway. She saw Mark, and fear flashed across her face. She quickly looked away and slipped back into her room.
Mum, lets have lunchIll heat it up quickly, Emma called matteroffactly from the kitchen, still acting as if Mark didnt exist.
Lunch, like the previous nights dinner, passed in oppressive silence. Emma set bowls of soup on the tablefor herself, for her mother, and after a hesitation, for Mark. It wasnt a gesture of reconciliation; it was mechanical, as if feeding a cat. Mark ate without a word, feeling the food stick in his throat. He watched his motherinlaw eat with her head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and that submissive, beaten posture inflamed him further.
When the soup was finished, Mrs. Whitfield got up, went to the kettle, brewed tea, then, mustering courage, took another mug, dropped a sachet of herbs into it, and poured boiling water. She came to the table, hand trembling, and set the cup in front of Mark.
This is for the nerves, Mark. A calming blend, she whispered, not daring to meet his eyes. Drink someyou must be having a hard time
That was the last straw. Her pity, her attempt at care, struck him as the height of hypocrisy. He slowly lifted his head, his face twisting into an ugly, spiteful grin.
Hard? Its hard for me? he said quietly, icy hatred dripping from every word. Yes, its hard for me. Its hard to breathe the same air as you, you old hag. You came here to die, didnt you? Came for tests to find out how much longer youll foul this sky and poison other peoples lives?
Emma froze, plate in hand, but remained silent, letting him finish.
A calming blend? he spat, pushing the cup away. Youd better brew it for yourself. Double dose. So you wont creak your bones any more and wont ask me to oil your hinges. You think youre a guest here? Youre not a guest. Youre mold. A burden. That your darling daughter dragged into MY house so Id have to bow and scrape to you!
He loomed over the table, addressing the petrified, terrified woman directly.
You were nothing your whole life, and youll die a nobody. A pitiful, sick old woman whos nothing but trouble to everyone. And the sooner that happens, the better for everybody. Especially for your daughter, who has to drag you around hospitals instead of living a normal life.
Dead silence fell in the kitchen. He breathed hard, expecting screams or tears, a scene. None came. Emma calmly set the plate down, her face unreadable. She looked at him the way one looks at an insect just before crushing it. Then she stood, walked past him into the hallway. Mark, grinning in triumph, waited for the next act.
She didnt go to the bedroom. She went to the front door, turned the key, flung it wide, then returned to the kitchen doorway and stared at Mark.
Out, she said, voice quiet but leaving no room for argument.
Mark was taken aback.
What?
I said out. Right now. In what youre wearing.
His face went slack. He couldnt believe it. This wasnt a bluff.
Are you serious? Youre throwing me out?
I warned you, she answered in the same even tone. One more word about my mother, and youd be out. You said your word. Now its your move. The door is open.
She stood and waited, unmoving. Her calm was more frightening than any fury. Mark looked around the kitchenhis plate, his motherinlaw frozen in shock, Emma standing in the doorway like a guard. He saw nothing in her eyes. No chance, no regret, no possibility of setting anything right. Only emptiness. He understood he had lost. Completely. Slowly, as if in a dream, he rose, walked around the table, headed for the door. He passed her, feeling her cold, watchful gaze on him. He stepped over the threshold.
Ill be back, and youll both regret this! he shouted.
Without another word, Emma closed the door behind him. One lock clicked, then another. She turned, looked at her mother, who sat with her face in her hands, then immediately dialed a locksmith to change both frontdoor locks first thing in the morning. The flat fell silent, but it was a different kind of silence now the silence of scorched earth.
