Just dont bring Mum over, Emma said, halfsmiling.
Unless Paul began, looking unsure. Unless we take her here?
Where, Paul? Emma gestured at their cramped 650squarefoot flat. To the kids room? With Jack and Emily?
A bedridden mum, ducks, pressure sores? You want the children to see that? To breathe it in? she asked, exasperated.
The family of four was winding down for the night.
Emma dabbed a sticky juice stain off the kitchen table, nudging a toy fire engineleft there by fiveyearold Jackout of the way with one foot. In the bathroom, water splashed as Paul bathed twoyearold Emily. Through the showers roar came his deliberately booming laugh and Emilys shrill squeal.
Molly, the neighbour whod dropped by earlier, smiled, feeling the tension melt away. A good evening, ordinary and oddly satisfying.
These were the moments she cherished most: mortgage paid on time, a tidy sum building up in the holiday pot, a fridge full of food, husband and children healthy.
The phone on the windowsill buzzed, sliding a few centimetres across the countertop as an unfamiliar number rang.
Emma frowned. A loan advert, or some bank security call at this hour?
She reached for the red button, but her finger brushed the green one instead.
Hello?
Emma? the voice trembled. Its Auntie Zena, Lauras neighbour from Bramley.
Inside Emmas chest tightened. Bramley was the little village where Pauls motherinlaw liveda place theyd practically erased from their lives two years ago.
Hello, Auntie Zena, Emma replied, lowering her voice so Paul wouldnt hear. How did you get my number?
I found it in Lauras notebook She Oh, dear the woman hiccuped. Emma, its terrible Lauras been in an accident.
Emmas hand froze, rag still in her grip.
What do you meanin an accident?
On the motorway. She drove into town at night, didnt see the oncoming traffic and the windscreen The car caught fire, the paperwork went up in flames too, everything everything. She sobbed. Shes in the district hospital now, in intensive care.
The water in the bathroom fell silent. The bathroom door swung open and Paul emerged, Emily wrapped in a towel, a grin on his face as he tried to entertain her. He stopped short when he saw Emmas pale face.
Emma? Whats wrong?
Emma pressed the phone to her chest, inhaled deeply.
Auntie Zena, I understand. Well well sort something out. Thanks for calling. She hung up, turned to Paul. Paul, put Jack in the high chair. We need to talk.
They sat at the kitchen table. The kids, unusually swift to settle, curled up on the sofa while Jack and Emily stared at their parents, sensing something was off.
Paul, hands clasped, said quietly, Shes alive, then.
The doctor said her condition is serious but stable, Emma said, scrolling through the messages. Hip broken, bone shattered, ribs, neck. Surgeries are planned, but
But what?
The doctor said plainly: shell be bedridden. Minimum six months, maybe longer, given her age and health.
Paul winced. The car burnt?
Everything went up in flames. Auntie Zena couldnt explain how Laura ended up on the wrong side of the road. Maybe she felt faint, maybe she was distracted.
Paul paced the cramped kitchen, two steps forward, two steps back. Two years, he muttered, not to anyone in particular. Two years we lived quietly, finally got a breath of fresh airno more endless calls, no more whining, no more mess.
He listed grievances: the way his motherinlaw had tried to claim the flat, forbidding them from putting it in their names, the snide remarks about Jack, the endless accusations.
Emma walked over, gave a weary smile. Paul, enough about the past We need to decide now. The doctors are waiting for an answer.
Tomorrow theyll move her from intensive care to a trauma ward. Shell need care. The nurses there are free, but only once a day.
Paul lifted his head. What kind of care, Emma? You expect me to quit my job and become a fulltime carer? Or you want me to quit altogether?
Were just starting to stand on our own feet. We have plansnew car, afterschool clubs for the kids.
The only option seems to be a livein carer, Emma began cautiously.
Youve seen the price, havent you? A 24hour carer costs at least £1,600 a week, plus medication, nappies, food. Thats practically my whole salary, Emma. Or yours.
I know.
What will we live on then? Scrape beans again? For whom? For a woman who turned us into well, old folk, while she lived her own life?
His voice cracked, revealing a longburied childish resentment. Because I cant even turn my back on my own motherinlaw, who never wished me a happy birthday, who threw me out in the rain while I was pregnant?
Emmas eyes narrowed, the old bitterness surfacing. Paul, she cant even move on her own.
So what? Thats her fate, Emma! Why should we pay for it, and our kids have to suffer?
Because if we dont, youll eat yourself alive with guilt. Paul fell silent.
I dont love her, Emma, he whispered. It sounds cruel, but I feel nothing but hatred.
I know. I dont love her either. After everything shes said about my parents, about us theres no love left.
Yes, but why keep fighting?
Because were human, Paul. Not beasts. By fairness we should look after her.
He gave a bitter grin. Fairness? Where was fairness when I was the school bully and she showed up once a month with a bag of sweets, pretending to be a caring mother?
Fairness never existed, and it wont now. Were not talking about her, were talking about us, about what well have to live with.
Paul pressed his fingers together. Alright. Lets count what we have in the rainyday fund.
£300,000 set aside for a new car, £200,000 for holidays.
Half a million, Paul said, shaking his head. Operations are free under the NHS, right?
Except the plates, the pinsthose might have to be imported, pricey. Meds, a carer
He opened the calculator on his phone. A private carer in hospital costs about £2,000 a day. Thats roughly £60,000 a month. Six months? £360,000.
Emma stared, eyes wide. Thats everything we have, Paul. And then some. Well be wiped out.
She fell silent, the numbers hanging heavy.
Maybe maybe we could bring her home? Paul ventured timidly.
Where, Paul? To the kids room? With Jack and Emily? A bedridden mum, ducks, pressure sores, nighttime moans? You want the children to see that? To breathe it in? Emma snapped.
No, Paul said quickly. No, of course not.
Into our bedroom? Wed sleep on the sofa, youd work when? Shed demand attention every second. Shed manipulate, guilttrip, throw tantrums. Wed split up in a month. I cant handle that! Emma shouted. Shell ruin us.
Paul lowered his head. He knew she was right. His own motherinlaw could turn a single flat into a hellish nightmare.
So no options, then? he said. Either we lose the money or we what? Dump her there?
Social services, Emma suggested. We could try to get her into a staterun care home for the terminally ill.
Is that a hospice? A oneway ticket? Paul grimaced. Shell be there for a few months, maybe longer, but its practically free. The state will look after her pension.
Paul measured the kitchen again with his eyes. I cant I hate her, but I cant just send her to the devils doorstep. Id lose my own dignity.
Emma exhaled. Fine. Heres the plan.
She picked up the notepad and pen that sat on the fridge. We wont blow all our savings. Well hire a private carer, but not through an agencydirectly, cheaper. Around £4550 a day.
Still a lot, Paul muttered.
But manageable if we cut back. No restaurants, no cinema, no new clothes for six months. No new car either, at least not now. The rainyday fund will cover meds and unexpected costs.
Paul watched her write, a flicker of admiration crossing his face. When do they discharge her?
In a month or two. Where do we take her? To the village? The house there has no utilities, shell be stuck. Well need to rent a cheap studio flat, with basic facilities, and move the carer there.
That’s another £1520,000 a year, Paul said.
Well work for her for a year, maybe two, until she can stand. She might never stand.
Emma paused, pen hovering. Paul, listen. Were not bringing her into our home. Thats nonnegotiable. I want to keep our family, our sanity, our kids childhood. Well pay for the best care we can afford, and well visit once a fortnight, bring food, check on her.
Paul wrapped his arms around Emma. What would I do without you?
***
They followed Emmas plan. The first meeting was tense: the mother blamed her son for being a cripple, and Emmas motherinlaw accused her of being the cause of her sons withdrawal.
They found a carer, bought everything the doctors prescribed, and started hunting for a modest flat for the mother and her own motherinlaw. Every day the phone rang with accusations, but they enduredbecause they werent beasts.
