Looking back, the marriage of Emily and Andrew seemed respectable, calm, and harmonious to outsiders. Andrew never drank heavily, only a glass on holidays, and he didn’t smoke. In eighteen years, he’d never once raised a hand to his wife.
There had been just one incident, though Emily always blamed herself for it, sometimes sharing the story with her friend:
“Years ago, we had a terrible row. I lost my temper and flew at him with my fists. Can you imagine—a slight woman like me against a strapping bloke? What was I thinking? All he did was hold my wrists gently and sit me down on the sofa. Another man might have lashed out, taught me a lesson. That’s when I realised I was wrong, and I swore I’d never do it again.”
“Blimey, Em,” said Margaret. “Your Andrew could’ve flattened you with one hand. Since when can a woman best a man?”
This was Emily and Andrew’s second marriage. She’d left her first husband because he drank too much and picked fights. He’d come home late, after their daughter Hannah was asleep, and start shouting. Sometimes he’d wake her and carry on without a care. Emily had had enough. She filed for divorce and moved back in with her parents.
“You did right, love,” her mother had said. “Five years with him, and all you got was grief. We’ll raise Hannah together, and you’ll find happiness again. You’re a fine-looking lass—you know that.”
When Hannah turned twelve, Emily married Andrew. They’d met at Margaret’s husband’s birthday party in a café. He’d approached her then, flashing a bright grin.
“You look bored,” he’d said. “Care for a dance?”
Tall, handsome, and easygoing—that was her first impression.
“Not bored,” she’d replied, “but I’ll dance with you.”
And so it began. Margaret was thrilled her friend wasn’t alone anymore. By then, Emily lived with Hannah in a modest three-bedroom flat left to her by her grandmother. The place was small, the rooms cramped, in one of those old brick buildings. But she was glad to have her own space. Soon, Andrew moved in—he’d been living with his mother before then.
His first marriage hadn’t been smooth either. He and his ex-wife, Victoria, had lived with his mother, but the two women couldn’t stand each other. Neither would yield, and near daily rows threatened to turn physical.
“Andrew, where on earth did you find this shrew?” his mother would demand after work. “I can’t stand another moment under the same roof.”
Victoria, fiery then, pregnant, insisted, “We need our own place. I’ll snap if we stay here.”
They’d moved out, had a son, and though Andrew did all he could, Victoria was never satisfied.
“Andrew, we’re skint. Our boy needs new clothes. He’s growing.”
“Andrew, cook supper—I didn’t have time.”
“Take him out, I’m knackered.”
He obliged, but his mother called often, lamenting that Victoria kept her from her grandson.
“She won’t let me see him!”
“Mum, I’ll bring him round Sunday.”
Victoria would pack the boy off with Andrew—then vanish to meet friends, returning late, smelling of drink. Andrew hated it, but she’d shout, accusing his mother of poisoning things. Weekends, she started staying out—once, she didn’t come home at all. He’d had to drop their son at his mother’s before work.
Then, when the boy was four, Victoria announced, “I’m leaving. You’re a mother’s boy. I need a proper man—I’ve found one.”
Andrew moved back in with his mother—a bitter woman who thought no woman good enough for her son.
For years, Emily and Andrew were happy. His mother was the only problem: she loathed that he’d married a woman with a child. Hannah, sweet-natured, had called her “Gran” once.
“I’m not your gran,” the older woman snapped. “Stick to your own.”
Hannah had been hurt, never calling her that again. Emily bit her tongue—she was right, after all.
Time passed. Hannah went to university. Emily and Andrew had no children together—she would’ve welcomed one, but it never happened. His mother remained cold, despite Emily’s efforts.
Then, slowly, Emily noticed Andrew changing. He’s always cooked well—when in the mood. But lately, his moods soured.
“Margaret, I don’t understand,” Emily confided. “He finds fault with everything I do, as if he means to upset me. He’s become so bitter. Was it always there, or is it age?”
Margaret frowned. “I’d no idea things were like that. You two always seemed so happy.”
“Now he nitpicks—I spend too much, meet friends too often. So I quit my job when he accused me of flirting with colleagues. Stopped seeing friends. He calmed—till the next gripe.”
“Em! Why’d you leave work?” Margaret asked.
“Andrew’s jealousy. If a colleague texted, he’d accuse me of carrying on. I couldn’t take it.”
Then came money: “You fritter cash on nonsense—manicures, new dresses. Think of the family.”
“Fine,” she conceded. “You’ll shop now—I’ll list what we need. Skip what you think frivolous. Just… no more rows.”
For a while, peace. Then—fitness classes. “You only go to eye up men.” She quit.
With nothing left to surrender, Emily wondered: was there another woman? She’d never snooped before, but now she checked his phone. No signs—just calls from his mother. Daily. Recently, he’d been taking them in another room.
She listened once. His mother’s voice: “That’s a wife? Out gallivanting while you wait? You’re spineless—she walks all over you.”
“Hello, Mum,” Emily cut in, forcing calm. “Andrew’s in the bath. I’ll pass that on.”
No apology—just more venom before the line went dead.
Emily understood now. His mother was the poison. She’d tried being kind. Why did she want them miserable? Didn’t she care her son was hurting?
She couldn’t forbid their contact. She loved him—his mother’s words still turned him cruel, though he’d apologise later.
“How do I save him?” she wondered. Perhaps a therapist? For now, that was her only hope. She’d book an appointment, and wait.
