Either Mum, or No One
Helen, we should probably get another ticket to the theatre.
Helen looked up from her dinner plate. The meal hadnt cooled yet, but Tom was already glued to his phone, tapping away with the intent focus of a man solving the nation’s problems.
Another ticket? Is someone else coming with us? she asked.
Tom didnt even glance up. Mums really keen. I mentioned it to her yesterday, and, well, she got terribly excited.
Helen set her fork carefully on the edge of her plate and rose to fetch a glass of water from the counter. She turned her face away under the pretext of pouring the water, but her expression twisted in a way she could neither control nor bother to hide. As long as Tom didnt seebecause explaining it all again was just beyond her.
Of course. His mother was keen. Mrs Pamela Anderson always was.
Helen stood at the sink, filling her glass, and their wedding photos flashed in her mindall two hundred and forty of them, which the photographer had handed over neatly on a USB tied with a ribbon. Shed spent three evenings sifting through them, trying to find a single one where she and Tom were alone together. Just the two of them, not surrounded by family or guests. There wasnt a single one.
Every picture was photobombed by Pamela: straightening Toms tie, hugging him close, standing right between bride and groom, beaming at the camera as if she was the one getting married. Helen had thought it was a fluke, an odd angle the photographer had chosen. Now she knew better.
From day one, her mother-in-law had acted as if Helen were just a flatmate temporarily sharing the place. And the flat belonged to Helen, mind you. Bought with her own savings. But Mrs Anderson would turn up as she liked, unannounced, an opinion on absolutely everything in tow: the curtains were all wrong, the pots were the wrong sort, the meat too salty, Tom too thin, Tom too pale, Tom not eating enough.
Helen sipped the water, returning the glass thoughtfully to the sink.
Every outing was the same. The cinema last month? Three of them. The ice rink at Christmas? Three again. Even that little coffee shop on Cornwell Road where Helen had hoped for a proper chat, just the two of themTom had invited his mum for some unfathomable reason. Shed squeezed herself between them at the tiny table, ordered tea with lemon and spent forty minutes reciting the latest saga about her blood pressure and how Mrs Carter, next door, had overflowed her bath again.
The theatre. Theyd picked this play on purpose. Helen had been waiting six weeks, had landed third-row seats in the stalls. It was supposed to be their evening. Just theirs.
Helen, are you alright?
Tom finally looked up, noticing her silence for the first time.
Look, Mum gets lonely, he added in that tired, resigned way of his that told Helen even he didnt realise how often he said it.
Helen turned and nodded. Fine. Get the ticket.
What else could she do? Shed said her piece before, several times, and it always ended the same: Tom sulking off to the bedroom, where hed stew quietly for hours; then, without fail, Pamela would call the next morning, asking in her most offended tone if everything was alright. The whole thing was a circle Helen had long ago stopped trying to break.
Tom smiled at her in thanks and was quickly lost in his phone again.
The third row really was brilliantHelens effort with the tickets had paid off. You could see every detail of the set, every flicker of expression in the actors eyes. But of course, Helen admired it alone; Tom was turned straight towards his mother the moment they sat down.
Pamela perched at Toms right and at once began discussing the programme, the foyer, some acquaintance she thought shed seen at the cloakroom. Helen, sitting on Toms left, stared at the empty stage even before the performance began. In the interval, Tom escorted his mum to the bar, leaving Helen aloneno one thought to invite her, and she was far past asking. They returned deep in some story about what had happened in the first act, as though Tom hadnt actually been present himself. Helen silently flicked through the programme, thinking these fantastic seats werent worth the money after all.
The ride home was a trio too. They dropped Pamela off first. Helen waited ten minutes in the car while Tom walked his mum to her door, sorted the lock, and listened to whatever she had to report from her hallway. When he finally returned, his face looked content and wholly at ease.
That was lovely, wasnt it?
Helen nodded, turning to the window. She mumbled something about being tired. It wasnt sleep she needed, but talking to Tom seemed pointless; anything she said now would simply drift away and vanish.
The weeks that followed played out exactly as Helen had expected. Pamela dropped round regularly. Tom spent more and more time with her, while Helen found herself drifting through her own home, listening to their talk and laughter from the kitchen. Dinners together became rare; weekends together dissolved into the routine trip to Mrs Andersons or yet another outing as a chaperoned trio. Helen crawled into bed early every night and woke with a dull ache behind her ribsan ache that slowly, over two months, became part of her.
In March, Helens work gave her a bonusa generous sum that had her thinking, on and off, for three days. She finally decided. Two weeks in Greece, all-inclusive. Sea, sun, a proper hotel with excellent reviews. Shed researched the package for a week, comparing rooms, reading comments on travel forums, triple-checking how close the beach was. This was supposed to be a real reseta chance to be together, away from everyone else.
Tom, Ive booked us a holiday, Helen announced at dinner, laying the booking confirmation before him. Greece, two weeks in June. Sea, sand, all in. I spent my bonus, but its worth every penny.
Tom read the printout, something like a smile flickering. Oh, thats brilliant, Helen.
Helen let out a slow breath. Maybe they hadnt lost it all, after all. Maybe they just needed to escape, go somewhere new, and everything would fall back in place. She slept better that night than she had in weeks.
But the next evening, Tom came home, waited until Helen was serving dinner, and said, with absolute composure and the solemn air of a man commenting on the weather:
Helen, I told Mum about Greece. Shed love to come toocould you book her a ticket?
The fork paused mid-air. Helen laid it down, staring at her husband, trying to work out if he was joking, or if he truly had no idea what hed just said.
This time, she did not bite her tongue.
No, Tom. I wont go on holiday with your mother.
Tom stopped chewing. He looked at her as if shed uttered some blasphemy in church.
Helen, come on! Shell be lonely. She hasnt seen the sea in three years. Whats the problem?
Helen stood, moved to the window and gripped the sill, knuckles whitening. Something had built up inside her for months, and it was finally making its way out.
She can go with her friends, cant she? Shes got five friends coming over for tea every weeksurely one of them will join her for a trip! Why cant we, just for once, have a holiday for ourselves?
Shes my mum, for heavens sake.
I know she is! Helen spun round, and all the self-control honed by months of silence snapped. I know, because shes involved in every single part of our lives! Cinema with her, skating with her, theatre with her, dinners with her! Tom, I am tired of being the third wheel in my own marriagedont you see it?
Tom pushed his plate away and stood, folding his arms.
Youre heartless, Helen. You simply dont understand what its like for her.
No, I dont! And I dont have to! Youre my husband, Tom! I want a proper, romantic break, just the two of us! Not to sit on a beach listening to you and your mum discussing her blood pressure, while I read my book in the shade and pretend everythings fine!
Tom squinted, stepping back.
Youre being nasty. Its either Mum comes, or Im not going.
Helen stopped cold. She studied him carefully, and something inside her fell into placea quiet, irreversible click.
Fine. Then Ill go without you.
She moved past him to the bedroom, dragged her suitcase from under the bed and tossed it onto the covers. Tom was at the doorway in seconds.
Helen, what are you doing? Stop a minute, cant we sort this out properly?
Weve tried that, Tom. Every time we sort things out, it ends with your mother. I cant live like thisthree people in a marriage, and Im always the extra.
Tom fell silent, leaning against the doorframe, and Helen could see it dawning on him at last: she wasnt picking a fight, she had made her decision.
Two months later, Helen was stretched out on a sun lounger by the pool in a Greek hotelthe very one she had picked, room by room, for them. The sun was warm on her shoulders, the air rich with the tang of salt, and her chilled cocktail gathered beads of condensation side by side with her thoughts. No one next to her grumbled about the draught, moaned about headaches, or replayed yesterdays tea with the neighbours. There was simply no one there, and it was wonderful. Helen took a long sip, let her eyes close briefly, and thought that perhaps she should have sorted it all out much soonerinstead of wasting two years waiting for a man to grow up who never quite managed it.
Sometimes, it takes choosing yourself to remember how beautiful life can be.
