I suppose I ought to start this entry by admitting that Junes already proving tougher than Id hoped, even though I half expected it. My payslips barely landed, and I can see the pounds slipping away as soon as I refresh the banking app. Moneys been draining quicker than a leaky tap for monthsand if Im being honest with myself, I know why, though Im not ready to put it into words.
After work, I rode the lift up to the third floorfourth flat on the left. Three years of living here and my feet walk this route without thinking. As I unlocked the door, I was immediately greeted by the warm, homely scent of potatoes frying with a generous sprinkle of dill. Claire always goes overboard with dill, never measuring, just a handful every time. I kicked off my shoes and chucked my satchel carelessly onto the hall stand.
“Im back,” I called into our tiny flat.
“Im in the kitchen!” Claire shouted over her shoulder.
She was stirring dinner at the hob, hair tied up, favourite checked shirt on. I slipped my arms round her, kissed the top of her head.
“Mmm, smells wonderful,” I murmured.
“Potatoes with mushrooms tonight. Sit down, Ill plate up in just a sec.” She smiled, but her eyes didnt quite reach me. I recognised the look: cheerfulness stretched over worry, like coloured cellophane. A few years together has taught me to read her feelings better than any book.
I watched her move about, putting food on plates. Her gestures were sharp today, not the gentle ones Im used to. Something was gnawing at herI suspected her usual tiresome phone call with her mum. Margaret Taylors words linger in the air long after she hangs up, like the taste of too-strong tea.
“Mum called, didnt she?” I asked, though I didnt need the answer.
Claire froze a fraction, then placed my plate with wobbly hands and sank down opposite.
“She did. Its nothing, really.”
A lie, clear as day. Margaret Taylor never called just for a chat. Every conversation brought a tiny poisoned barb.
I could have pressed her, tried to pry out what Margaret had said to infect the peace of our evening. But why bother? Its always the same: my salary isnt good enough, my ancient cars embarrassing, no prospects for Claire with me. Shes been playing the same old tune, on repeat, for years.
We ate in companionable silence. The place is smalla one-bed in a block of flatsbut its ours, not rented, and I managed to buy it before we married. That fact makes me quietly proud. Not a mansion, true, but a home built on my own honest effort.
Claire poked at her dinner distractedly, her thoughts miles away. I knew she was turning over her mums words, the same way a catchy advert jingle gets stuck in your head.
Margaret Taylor took a disliking to me before Claire and I had even settled in. I still remember meeting her, wearing my best jeans and the only decent jumper I owned. She looked at me like I was some marked-down item on the wrong shelf.
“And what do you do, love?” shed asked, eyes narrowed.
“Im an engineer.”
“Engineer,” shed repeated, as though it were a dreadful admission. “Decent salary, is it?”
Claire blushed, tried to change the subject, but the damage was done. Three years gone by, and Margaret hasnt softened one bit.
Every encounters a test of patience. “Sophies sons opened another shopsecond business this year!” “When will you buy a new car, then? That rustbuckets due for the scrap heap.” “Claire always said she wanted a place in the countrysideyou knew, didnt you?”
Ive learnt to let it wash over me. Smile, nod, avoid any argumentwhats the point? Margaret Taylor wont ever be convinced. Shes mapped her opinion and plans to stick to the route.
Claire finished eating and pushed her plate away.
“Mum wants us round on Saturday for dinner. Dads birthday.” She sounded nervous.
I tensed up a little. Saturday dinners at the Taylors are a ritual of endurance: their big table, the entire extended family, all under Margarets command like a military parade.
“What time?”
“Seven oclock.”
“Right. Well pick up a cake on the way there?”
“Mum said not to. Shes got everything sortedno need to bring anything.”
Typical. Margaret loves being in controlbringing your own cake would be sacrilege.
Claire cleared the plates and took them to the sink, and I watched her from behind. Theres something fragile about her, like a small bird you want to keep sheltered. Except the cold wind comes straight from her mums house, and you cant close the windows on that.
“Claire,” I called softly. She turned. “You know I love you, right?”
“I love you, too,” she whispered. But something flickered behind her eyesdoubt, tiredness, even guilt?
I didnt ask. Sometimes its better not to know what thoughts are rooted by someone elses words.
Saturday came far too quickly.
I pulled up, parking my battered old Toyota outside the Taylors place. The paint on the wings been chipped since last autumnIve just never got round to fixing it. Claire sat beside me, nervously twisting her handbag strap.
“Ready?”
“No,” she admitted. “But we have to go up, dont we?”
The Taylors flat was filled with the smell of roast beef and a hum of voices. Her father, Colin Taylor, a gentle man of few words, hugged Claire and shook my hand as if trying to downplay the fuss. The birthday boy always looks awkward at his own party.
All the relatives were gathered: uncles, aunts, cousinsI still couldnt name them all after three years. Margaret Taylor, as ever, presided over the table, issuing instructions for who should sit where, who got seconds.
Claire and I took seats near the edge of things, an exit route in mind if it all went south.
The first half hour breezed by: toasts to Colin, clinking glasses, laughter. I nearly relaxed.
“Dan,” Margaret piped up, and I frozetoo soon to let my guard down. “You and Claire still living in that one-bed?”
“Yes, Margaret. It suits us fine.”
“Suits you, does it?” Margaret echoed. “What about children? Where would you keep a little one in that shoebox?”
Claire stiffened beside me. I squeezed her hand underneath the table.
“When we decide to start a family, well think about space then.”
“Youll sort it, will you?” Margaret scoffed. “On your salary? Youll need a mortgage, Dan. Get yourselves a proper flat like normal folk do: buy bigger, move up in the world.”
“I dont want to get into debt,” I replied evenly. “We own our place. Thats enough for now.”
“Enough, he says!” Margaret scanned the assembled family for backup. “You hear that? Enough! Meanwhile, his wifes crammed in while her friends move into big new homes.”
“Mum,” Claire started softly.
“Dont. Im talking to your husband.” She turned to me. “Remember Sophies lad, Mark? Two mortgages, but hes got a fancy flat in the city and drives a German car. And you? Still running that wreck, living in a shoebox. Arent you embarrassed?”
I put my fork down slowly. Three years of sniping, comparisons, contemptall for Claire, all for peace.
“Im not embarrassed,” I said, keeping calm. “I earn my way by honest means. No swindling, no cutting corners. We live how we can afford.”
“Live how you can afford!” Margaret snapped, her palm banging the table for emphasis. Drinks jumped, a fork clattered to the floor. Her face flushed with red spots.
“Youre not a proper manyoure spineless! My daughter deserves someone betterIll bloody well find her a real husband!”
Dead silence fell. The family stared, forks mid-air. Colin looked down, as if wishing the table would swallow him.
I got up, slow and steady. Three years of swallowing my voice finished in that instant.
“Margaret. I wont prove my worth to someone who despises me. If you see me unfit, thats your problem. But I wont be insulted again.”
Claires eyes widened, tears starting. She looked from me to her mumher two worlds split by an invisible faultline, demanding she choose.
Claire stood.
“Mum. I love you. But if you ever insult Dan again, well leave and we wont come back.”
Margaret froze.
“Say that again?” she demanded.
“You heard me. Dan is my husband. I chose him. I wont let you put him down. Not ever again.”
“How dare you!” Margarets rage trembled. “Ungrateful girl! After all Ive done, you pick that useless man over your own mother!”
“Mum, enough!”
Claires shout rang out. All the relatives shrank back. Even Aunt Maureen, usually the first with smart comments, stayed quiet.
“Youve controlled every part of my life for years,” Claire went on, lips shaking. “Youve told me what to wear, who to befriend, how to liveenough! Im grown now. I choose who I marry and how I live.”
Margaret glared at her daughter, face ashen.
“Youll regret this day,” she hissed. “When he leaves you with nothing, youll come crawling home. And Ill think twice before letting you in.”
She marched away, slamming her bedroom door.
I moved to Claire, cradling her tightly. She buried her face into my chest, her shoulders trembling.
“You did the right thing,” I whispered in her hair. “Im so proud of you.”
Colin got up, voice low and kind.
“Go home, you two,” he told us. “Shell cool offeventually.”
On the drive back, Claire said nothing. I didnt rush hersome wounds arent meant to be prodded.
Back in our little flat, she finally spoke.
“Im not ringing her first.”
“Ill support you whatever you do,” I said simply.
Claire met my eyestired and tear-streaked, but with a spark kindling deep inside.
“Well manage,” she said.
And as I pulled her into my arms, I realised our tiny flat no longer felt so cramped. It was our fortressand Im certain that, together, our story was just beginning.
