“Look after my mum, it’s not that hard,” Margaret Whitmore said, her voice tinged with worry. “You know she’s not the same anymoreage, the memory lapses, the dementia. The doctors say she needs constant supervision. I’d do it myself, but work keeps me busy, and youre home working remotely, aren’t you?”
Emma pressed her lips together. She really was working from home, translating documents and sometimes doing online consultations. Her schedule was flexible, but that didnt mean she had endless spare time.
“Margaret, I honestly dont know what to do,” Emma began cautiously. “Ive never dealt with something like this. Should we hire a carer? Or maybe move her to a residential home where professionals look after her?”
Margarets eyes flashed with indignation. “A residential home? How could you even suggest that! She’s my mother! Ill never hand her over to strangers. Were family.”
Emma glanced at me, hoping for some support, but I kept my eyes glued to the phone.
“Emma, she doesnt ask for much,” I finally said without looking up. “Just check in on her in the morning and evening, feed her, help a bit. Its not a massive task. You can manage it.”
Emma sighed. Arguing was pointless. Besides, we were still living in Margarets flatshe had kindly let us stay after the wedding while we saved for our own place. Refusing now would feel ungrateful.
“Alright,” she whispered. “Ill give it a try.”
Margarets face lit up. She rose, walked around the table, and embraced Emma tightly.
“Thank you, love. You have no idea how much youre helping me. Ill give you the keys and write down the address. Mum lives just a fifteenminute walk away. But, Emma, she can be a bit… you know, irritable. Dont mind it if she says something odd. Okay?”
Emma nodded, feeling that she could handle it. What could be so difficult about looking after an elderly woman?
The next morning answered that question.
Doris Clarkes flat was in a rundown block with cracked walls and creaky stairs. Emma climbed to the third floor, knocked, and waited. Inside, a thump sounded, then shuffling footsteps, then the click of a lock.
The door swung open to reveal a stooped old woman in a faded housecoat, her eyes clouded.
“What do you want?” she croaked.
“Good morning, Mrs Clarke. Im Emma, Jamess wife. Margaret asked me to help you. May I come in?”
Mrs Clarke sneered but stepped aside. Emma entered the hallway and was immediately hit by a stale, medicinal, sour smell. The flat was a messmagazines, ripped slippers, empty pill bottles piled on a bedside table, and a lingering burnt odor from the kitchen.
“What would you like for breakfast? I can make something,” Emma offered, turning to the old woman.
Mrs Clarke snapped, “I dont want anything! Who sent you? Val? Another spy!”
Emma was taken aback. “Im just trying to help…”
“Help!” the old lady mocked. “All you lot are the samepretending to care while waiting for me to die so you can grab the flat!”
Emma stood frozen, the words cutting like poison. She moved to the kitchen, switched on the kettle, and rummaged for food. The fridge held a few eggs, a slice of ham, and some hardtack breadenough for a simple scramble.
While she cooked, Mrs Clarke plonked onto a stool by the door, ranting nonstop.
“Youre always late. Yesterday Val promised to come and never showed. Liar. And youjust waiting to eat me out and then claim theres nothing left.”
Emma kept her silence, flipping the eggs, trying not to hear the old womans tirade.
When the plate was ready, Emma set it down before Mrs Clarke. The lady glanced at the scrambled eggs, tasted a bite, then grimaced and pushed the plate away.
“Disgusting. Oversalted. Can you even cook?”
Emma bit her lip. The eggs were seasoned just right.
“Mrs Clarke, you need to eat, otherwise you cant take your medication.”
“Dont tell me what to do! I know when Im hungry!”
The old woman shuffled back to her room and slammed the door. Emma was left staring at the untouched plate, a flicker of irritation rising inside her, but she swallowed it. The day had just begun.
That evening, when Emma returned, the scene repeated. Mrs Clarke refused dinner, balked at her pills, and accused Emma of trying to rob her. Emma pleaded, explained, but to no avail. By nightfall her head throbbed. At home, I met her in the kitchen.
“How was it?” I asked casually.
“Tough,” Emma admitted, dropping into a chair. “Your mum shes a nightmare. She yells, swears, wont eat.”
I shrugged. “Shes old. I warned you. Hang in there, love. It wont be forever.”
She wanted to ask what I meant by forever, but stayed quiet as I retreated to my room, slamming the door behind me.
A week passed, then another. Emma visited Doris twice a day, cooking, cleaning, trying to keep some order. She worked late into the night on translations, then rose early to tend to the flat. Mrs Clarke never softened. On the contrary, she grew more criticalcomplaining the food was too cold, then too hot; that Emma spoke too loudly, then too softly. She threw things, shouted, called her a freeloader and a leech. Emma clenched her fists and kept silent; her patience was wearing thin.
A month later, Doriss health deteriorated sharply. She stopped getting out of bed, ate almost nothing, and complained of pain. Emma called a doctor, who prescribed new medication and warned that her condition was serious.
That night Emma collapsed onto the couch, exhausted to the point she couldnt even cry. The next morning Margaret asked, “Emma, hows she doing?”
“Not well,” Emma replied, weary. “The doctor says she needs constant care. I cant do this any longer, Margaret. Im drained. I need to work, I need rest. Im failing.”
Margarets tone turned icy. “So youre refusing?”
“Im not refusing, Im asking for help. Lets hire a carer”
“Hire a carer!” Margaret snapped. “Do I look like I have endless cash? This is your duty, Emma. We gave you a roof, a place to live. Show a little gratitude!”
Emmas hands balled into fists. “Ive spent a month looking after your mothercooking, cleaning, enduring her abuse, pulling allnighters to keep up. I cant continue.”
“You cant?” Margaret replied harshly. “Then get out. Everywhere. Pack your things, James, did you hear that?”
I stood in the doorway, arms crossed, my expression unreadable.
“Emma, youre right, the mothers needs come first,” I said evenly. “Youre a woman, you should put family first.”
Emma stood, breathing easier. “Fine. I understand. Everything.”
Margaret gasped, and I blinked, unsure what Id just heard.
“Emma, where are you going?” I asked, bewildered.
She was already in the bedroom, pulling a small suitcase and packing a few itemsclothes, documents, a laptopall the things she owned before moving in with us.
I followed, watching her load the bag. confusion turned to irritation on my face.
“Emma, stop. You cant just leave.”
“I can,” she replied, zipping the suitcase. “Where? Back to my parents? Then Ill find my own flat, get a divorce. This place isnt ours.”
I opened my mouth, but no words came. Emma slipped past me, headed for the door. Margaret stood in the hallway, pale and stunned.
“Emma, where are you going?” she pleaded again.
“Leaving. Thanks for the hospitality,” Emma said, stepping out and inhaling the brisk air. Relief washed over her like a wave.
The divorce was processed quickly; I didnt even attend the hearing. Emma received the decree, tucked it away in a drawer, and never thought of me again.
She moved into a modest onebedroom flat and started living for herselfquietly, steadily, free of shouting and strain. A year slipped by unnoticed.
One afternoon she met her friend Sarah at a café. They chatted about work, summer plans, and then Sarah asked, “By the way, have you heard what happened to your exmotherinlaws mother?”
Emma looked up from her tea. “No. Whats the story?”
“She passed away a few months ago. Margaret caused a scene all over town. Turns out the old womans flat was bequeathed to a distant relativea niece, I think. Margaret tried to sue, claimed the mum was insane, but it was useless. The will had been drawn up five years earlier while Doris was still of sound mind.”
Emma froze. “She left the flat to a distant relative?”
Sarah nodded. “Exactly. Margaret was hoping to inherit the property, which is why she insisted the mum stay at home instead of a care homeshe wanted to appear caring to avoid any challenge. In the end, she got nothing.”
A warm, satisfying feeling settled in Emmas chest. All that time Margaret had used her as a free carer just to line up a claim on the flat. The justice shed longed for finally arrived.
“Emma, why are you smiling?” Sarah asked, puzzled.
“Nothing,” Emma replied, a faint grin playing on her lips. “Just justice.”
Sarah chuckled. “So what now? Celebrate?”
“Yes,” Emma said. “Lets get a piece of cake, a glass of prosecco, and a good, pricey coffee.”
Sarah laughed. “Celebrating what?”
“Just that life can be wonderfully unpredictable.”
Later, as they left the café and walked down the street, Emma felt light, almost soaring. Perhaps shed been a little pleased at someone elses misfortune, but Margaret had tried to sap all her strength and then discard her. In the end, life had turned the tables. The flat went to someone else, and even though Margaret still lived nearby, it didnt bring her any happiness. That was the whole of the story.
