“What on earth is this?!” Emily exclaimed, standing in the middle of the living room, irritation dripping from her voice.
Her hands trembled with frustration as she scanned the room, half-expecting the walls to answer her question for her.
“Again?! Third time this month! How much longer?!”
On the sofa, lounging against the cushions like a man who’d just won the lottery in laziness, sat Oliver. Phone in one hand, TV remote in the other. He flicked his gaze toward her, utterly unfazed, as usual when his mother was involved.
“What do you mean ‘again’?” He squinted, like he was deciphering a particularly dull tax form. “Don’t start a row. I just got home. I want to relax.”
“A row?” Emily took a step forward, voice rising. “You call this a row? Five hundred quid! Just like that! No explanation, no discussion! You didn’t even ask what she needed it for—just sent it off!”
Oliver set his phone down with a sigh, his expression more exhausted than surprised.
“So what? She’s my mum. She needed help—I helped. What’s the issue?”
Emily closed the distance between them, cheeks flushed.
“The issue is we’re saving for a cottage! We agreed, Oliver! Every penny was supposed to go toward our dream! And yet, every month, money vanishes into the ether! Medicine, home repairs, now some ‘unexpected expenses’—what’s next, a new iPhone?”
He rubbed his temples like a man praying for divine intervention.
“She’s getting on, Em. Needs a hand sometimes. Easier to help than argue.”
“Getting on? She’s sixty-five and jogs more than you do! Between the theatre, her country club, and those endless coach trips—when was the last time we even had a holiday?”
“Em—” Oliver’s voice sharpened for the first time. “Don’t talk about her like that. She raised me.”
“She raised you, Oliver. Not me. And yes, I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean she gets a blank cheque! We’re on one salary. My freelancing’s unpredictable. You know that.”
And he did. After the marketing agency folded, taking her creative director role with it, Emily had gone freelance. Work came, but paydays wavered. Their budget was as fragile as a house of cards. Every unexpected expense—a gust of wind threatening to topple it.
They dreamed of a cottage. For three years, it had lived inside them—a little place in the countryside, roses climbing the terrace, friends round for barbecues, cosy evenings by the fire. But every time they neared their goal, something happened: Margaret needed a new boiler, dental work, wallpaper, appliances… Back to square one.
“I’m just tired,” Emily murmured, turning toward the window. “Tired of coming second. Tired of pinching pennies while your mum jets off to Spain.”
Oliver moved behind her but didn’t touch her.
“She’s not well, Em. She needs support.”
“Not well from what? Shopping and sightseeing? Have you ever checked where that money goes? She’s living her best life while we haven’t had a proper holiday in a decade!”
“Drop it,” Oliver said firmly, his voice flattening again. “I don’t want to argue.”
“Of course you don’t!” Emily whirled around. “You never do when it’s about your mother. She’s Saint Margaret, and I’m the villain. But I don’t want her to suffer—I want fairness! And I want our damn cottage!”
Oliver went quiet. Shoulders tense, eyes on the floor. Emily knew that look. He wouldn’t engage. He’d wait it out, vanish in a few hours, pretend nothing happened.
“Right.” His voice went dull. “I’m going to bed.”
And he left her standing there, staring at the cold, indifferent stars outside.
***
Morning brought coffee, a run, and the same suffocating fatigue. Emily hit the pavement, hoping the rhythm of her trainers would clear her head. Sometimes she ran to forget. Today, she ran to understand.
By the time she got back, Oliver was knotting his tie for work, expression softened—but not enough.
“Listen, Em,” he started, avoiding her eyes, “I’ll talk to Mum. Promise.”
Emily studied him.
“About what, exactly? Her spending our savings? You know it won’t change. She’s got an excuse for everything.”
“I’ll try.” He adjusted his collar. “Might be important this time. I didn’t ask.”
“Right. It’s always important. Especially when it’s her idea.”
“Gotta go. We’ll talk tonight.” A quick peck on the forehead, and he was out the door.
Silence settled over the flat, thick and heavy.
***
They’d met at a mutual friend’s party. Back then, things were different. Oliver was attentive, confident, a touch romantic. Emily was full of ideas, energy, faith in love. They balanced each other—like sunlight and shadow.
She’d met Margaret before the wedding. Steel-grey hair, sharp eyes, a voice that could flatten dissent with a single inflection.
“I hope you’ll make my son happy,” she’d said, examining Emily like a suspect. “He’s special.”
At the time, Emily thought it was just maternal pride. Now, she knew—it had been a warning.
After the wedding, they moved into their own flat. Margaret stayed in hers. The calls started small—favours, errands. But soon, “help” became routine.
Emily once overheard Margaret bragging to a neighbour about her new washing machine—”top of the range, Oliver insisted.”
The old one had worked fine. Margaret just fancied an upgrade. And Oliver, of course, paid.
That’s when Emily understood: her mother-in-law didn’t need help—she needed control.
They got sneaky. Stopped sharing plans. Quietly saved for a place of their own. When they finally got the mortgage, they moved fast—no fanfare, no party. Just keys and quiet relief.
But Margaret showed up uninvited on moving day.
“You should’ve told me, Oliver,” she said, lips pressed thin. “I’d have helped.”
“We managed, Mum.”
She smiled, but her eyes flashed—something between hurt and fury.
Their flat was cosy but small. Emily craved space, light, room to breathe. The dream of a cottage took root—a quiet hum at first, then louder, till it was all she could think about. A little house, a garden, friends around a fire. It kept her going.
Oliver, ever the peacekeeper, agreed. But their savings kept leaking—always to the same place.
***
A week after the latest “loan,” Emily was at her desk when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood on the step, pristine as always, handbag clutched like a shield.
“Hello, dear! Oliver said you’d be in. Thought we’d have a cuppa.”
Emily’s shoulders tensed. Margaret never visited without an agenda.
“Of course. Come in.”
Margaret surveyed the flat like an estate agent.
“Lovely. So tidy. You’re a marvel, Emily.”
They sat. Tea was poured. The air was thick with unspoken negotiations.
“Emily,” Margaret began, voice dropping to a stage whisper, “I’ve been thinking… Oliver works so hard. And I’m all alone. It’s lonely.”
Emily stirred her tea slowly.
“And?”
“Well…” A dramatic pause. “My bridge club mentioned how lovely the countryside is. Fresh air, peace… So I thought—why not help you two buy that cottage?”
Emily nearly choked.
“Cottage?”
“Yes! Oliver told me you’re saving. I’d like to contribute.”
Emily’s grip tightened on her mug. So he’d blabbed. Again.
“We’re saving, yes. But it’s a way off yet.”
“Perfect!” Margaret beamed, pulling an envelope from her bag. “I’ve got savings. For a rainy day. But family comes first.”
Emily stared. This was… unexpected.
“You have savings?”
“Of course! Worked all my life, didn’t I?” She pushed the envelope across the table. “Take it. Buy somewhere nice. Big enough for guests. Like me.”
That night, Oliver gaped at the stack of banknotes.
“Where’d she get this?”
“Says it’s her nest egg. Wants to ‘help.’ Mentioned grandchildren. Quality time.”
Oliver frowned. “Maybe she’s turning over a new leaf?”
Emily snorted. “Or plotting something.”
They took the money. Two months later, they had a cottage—a little place near the Cotswolds, roses already climbing the porch.
Margaret called often, asking for updates. Emily answered politely, suspicion simmering.
Moving day arrived. Friends, family, a table groaning with food. Margaret arrived early, inspecting everything like a drill sergeant.
“Charming! But only one guest room? Should’ve gone bigger.”
The evening passed in laughterAnd as the sun set over their little cottage, Emily smiled to herself—because no matter how many “surprise visits” lay ahead, this dream, at least, was finally hers to keep.
