James slammed his calculator onto the kitchen table, the clatter echoing like a distant gong, and pressed a thumb against his nose, his whole demeanor shouting how weary he was of Emmas impractical wishes.
Emma, what do you expect? Have you seen the prices? We agreed this year to pull the strings tight. The roof on the cottage needs a new thatch, the car needs a service, and the world feels as unstable as a wobbling teacup. Every penny counts, and you keep talking about the sea, the sea he snarled, his voice rattling the cheap porcelain mugs.
Emma stood by the window, staring at the blackened asphalt of the back garden where, under the July heat, the air seemed to melt into a shimmering mirage. She ached, not just in body but in spirit, to feel a salty breeze, to hear the hush of waves, to lie for a week without the weight of quarterly reports, borscht, and perpetual pennypinching.
James, we havent been away in three years, she whispered without turning. Im exhausted. My holiday is slipping through my fingers. Weve been saving. In that old wooden box on the top shelf lies enough for the two of us if were modestjust a guesthouse, not a fivestar hotel.
We cant be modest now, James cut in, pouring himself a cup of lukewarm tea. Tickets have jumped, groceries are practically gold. If we go, well bleed it dry and then what? Sit shivering in winter? No, Emma. This year we stay home. Well head to my parents cottage in the Yorkshire Dales, theres a stream, fresh air. Isnt that a resort? And well help Mum; her cucumber beds need tending.
Emma sighed. Arguing with James when he switched on his rational husband mode was pointless. He always managed to twist the conversation until she felt like a frivolous spendthrift, selfishly chasing pleasure while he bore the crushing load of family responsibility.
Fine, she conceded, a hollow disappointment rising inside her. The cottage is the cottage. But dont expect me to stand at the stove from dawn till dusk. I want to rest.
Good girl, Jamess voice softened instantly. Thats the deal. The money will stay safe. We still have to renew the insurance.
The next fortnight drummed on in the stifling city heat. Emma went to work, dreaming of an airconditioner that James dismissed as a luxury (Open a window and youll have a draught, why waste electricity?). She counted down the days to the break. The prospect of two weeks at Eleanors cottageher motherinlawdidnt thrill her, but it was better than being cooped up in a concrete flat.
Three days before their planned escape, everything shifted. While Emma was frying mince patties, the kitchen turning into a furnace, Jamess phone buzzed.
He snatched it up, his relaxed expression snapping to alarm.
Yes, Mum what? Bad blood pressure? The doctors? he muttered. Right, well find the money. Dont worry, health first. He hung up, his face a mask of tragedy.
Emma, bad news. Mum called. Shes in terrible shape. Blood pressure spikes, heart fluttering, legs trembling. The doctor said she needs immediate treatmentnot pills, but a full course of rest, a regimen.
Hospital? Emma asked, turning off the stove.
Worse. A specialist sanatorium. Cardiorehab in the Midlands, mild climate, no sudden temperature changes. If she doesnt get it, she could have a stroke. Shes alone; Dad left early. If anything happens to her, I wont forgive myself.
James began pacing the kitchen, his steps echoing like a nervous metronome.
So the cottage plans are off. We have to send Mum to the sanatorium. I looked at costs in the spring when the first warnings appearedit isnt cheap. The package, travel, procedures all paid.
Emmas stomach tightened.
How much?
James faltered. Almost everything we saved. Plus a bit from my current salary. But its Mum, Emma! You cant put a price on health. Were young, well manage, but she needs help now.
All the money we set aside for the holiday and the cottage roof? Emma asked, a knot forming in her throat. Thats £2,000. Thats how much a twoweek stay in a decent Midlands sanatorium costs?
A good one! James snapped. Full board and treatment! Are you really worried about spending a few pounds on a sick old woman? I didnt expect such coldness from you. Youre counting pennies while a life hangs in the balance!
Emma bit her lip, the accusation of coldness his favorite weapon. She could not say no. Refusing a mothers care felt inhuman.
I dont mind, she whispered. Fine. Let her go. Health first.
James embraced her, kissing her forehead.
Thank you, love. I knew youd understand. Youre my treasure. Ill go tomorrow, take the money, help her pack, drive her to the station. Shes been booked into a place near Telford; they say the air there works miracles.
The next day James emptied their secret stash. Emma watched, heart heavy, as a plump envelope slid into his bag. She stayed behind in the city, alone, on a vacation that meant nothingno sea, no cottage, no spare cash for a coffee out.
James returned late, exhausted but satisfied with his duty.
Done, he exhaled, collapsing onto the sofa. Mum resisted at first, cried, didnt want the money. She said, How can you kids not have a break? I coaxed her. Shell be fine.
Will she call when she arrives? Emma asked.
Signals weak up there, James replied briskly. The sanatorium is in a remote wood, total quiet. Shell turn her phone off to keep the radiation off her heart. Shell maybe call the reception once a couple of days, if at all. So dont badger her; let her heal.
Emmas vacation began. She spent days at home, launching a thorough spring clean to keep her hands and mind occupied. The heat persisted, the city seemed to melt. James went to work, returning each evening to voice his fatigue, his anxieties about Mums condition.
Did she call? Emma would ask each night.
She did, James would nod. Her voice sounds brighter. Shes on the treatments, they feed her a diet, its boring but the airs good. Pine trees, silenceexactly what the doctor prescribed.
Emma felt a faint relief. At least there was some benefit to her sacrifice.
A week later, Emma perched on the balcony with her laptop, aimlessly scrolling through social mediaa habit shed rarely indulged. Photos of friends sunbathing, cocktails, bronzed bodies flooded the feed. Everyones at the sea, except me, she thought bitterly.
A suggestion popped up: You may know this person. A portrait of a woman in a widebrimmed hat and oversized sunglasses appeared. Emmas thumb hovered, then froze. Something about the tilt of the head, the fuchsia lip colour, felt hauntingly familiar.
She clicked back. The account read Lydia Fairweather. Emma frowned. She didnt know any Lydia. Yet curiosity pushed her to open the profile.
It belonged to a friend of EleanorsLydia was a longtime companion of Emmas motherinlaw, practically sisters since school days. The latest post, three hours ago, was geotagged Brighton, Seaside Town. Emma opened the picture.
In the image, beside a turquoise pool and palms, two women sat at a table. Tall glasses of colourful cocktails with tiny umbrellas rested beside a platter of massive prawns.
One woman was Lydia. The other
Emma zoomed in. The second woman wore a leopardprint bikini and a sheer sarong, laughing with her head thrown back. Around her neck dangled a familiar golden chain with a hefty pendantthe very necklace James and Emma had given her for her birthday last year.
It was Eleanor, the very ill motherinlaw, supposedly tucked away in a quiet Midlands sanatorium, now posing in Brighton with Emmas money.
Emmas hands trembled. She scrolled down. Yesterdays post: Were on the banana boat! Feeling brilliant! Eleanor waved from an inflatable in the sea. The day before: Evening promenade, live music, a little grill with brandy. She twirled in a dress with a man. Three days ago: Checked in! Gorgeous room, sea view! Thanks, dear kids, for the gift!
The caption read, Thanks, dear kids. Emmas vision darkened. The kids who had given the gift were herself and Jamesonly one of them knew where the money went, the other was left in the dark, pouring her savings into a fake illness.
Emma sat frozen for several minutes, the words James had repeated looping in her mind: No money, Youre wasteful, Mums dying, The signals bad. She felt foolish, naïve, duped.
She saved screenshots of every photo, tucked them into a folder, then stood, poured herself a glass of water. The clink of the glass against her teeth sounded like ice breaking. Rage, cold and calculated, began to replace the sting of betrayal.
James would be back in an hour. Emma decided not to launch an outburst at the doorway; that would be too easy.
She cooked dinner, set the table. When the lock clicked, she met James with a smile.
Hey love, how was your day? he asked, slipping off his shoes, muttering about the heat that was finally breaking his back. The office AC gave up, we barely survived. Anything to eat?
Of course, she replied, laying her hands on the table.
They ate, James devouring a stew while recounting supplier woes. Emma nodded, adding a garnish here and there.
So, Mumhas she called today? she asked, eyes fixed on him.
James paused, fork midair, then swallowed.
She called this afternoon, just a minute. Bad signal, it cuts out. She says the treatments are hard, shes tired. The doctor said bed rest, so shes mostly reading. She misses us.
Poor thing, Emma murmured, clutching a napkin until her knuckles whitened. Shes lying in the woods, huh? Hows the weather there? Rainy, I guess? The Midlands are always damp.
Yes, gloomy and cool. Heat would be bad for her blood pressure. Thats why the doctor banned any visits. If we showed up, shed get nervous, her pressure would spike. No visitors allowed.
Emma tilted her head. James, Ive been thinking maybe we could pop over for a weekend? Bring her some groceries? Its not farjust about five hours by car.
James choked on his tea, his face flushing.
Youre crazy, Emma. That place is practically a closed facility, a quarantine zone or something. No ones allowed inside. Wed just disturb her peace. The doctor strictly forbids it.
What strict doctor, Emma said, shaking her head. Fine then. Too bad. I wanted to bake her a cake.
She walked over to the side table where the laptop lay.
By the way, James, come see this. I found a sanatorium online with great reviews. Maybe we could book for next year? she said, opening a folder of screenshots.
James rose, wiping his mouth, and slumped into the chair opposite her.
What now? he asked, weary.
Emma expanded the first photo to full screen.
Look at that poolmagnificent. Palms, just like in the Midlands, right? They say climate change is doing wonders.
James stared, his eyes widening. He recognized the bikini, the hat, the very woman in the photohis mother, raising a glass of Pina Colada, smiling at the camera.
The room fell silent, the refrigerator humming, Jamess breath sounding heavy.
What what is this? he croaked.
This, Emma clicked to the next image, showing Eleanor on a banana boat. Apparently a therapeutic activity. Hydromassage in open water, great for blood pressure and joints. And this, she switched to a picture of a ballroom dance, strict bed rest, obviously.
James recoiled from the screen as if burned. He looked at Emma, whose face was eerily calm, and that calm terrified him.
Explain, he managed. Why are we stuck in this stifling town, eating pasta, pinching toilet paper, while your dying Mum is frolicking in Brighton on my holiday money?
She leaned forward, eyes locked on his.
You banned me from buying a trip. You said there was no money. You made me feel guilty for wanting a break. And you, in secret, bought a holiday for Mum? For £2,000?
It wasnt £2,000! James shouted, trying to argue. It was cheaper! And its my money too! I earn, I have the right to help my mother!
Your money? Who pays the mortgage? Me. Who buys the groceries? Me. Your salary goes into your car, your gadgets, your savings jar that you just emptied for Mum. We saved TOGETHER. Those were joint funds. You stole them.
You didnt steal, you took! She raised me! I owe her! he protested.
And what do I owe you? Lies? Hypocrisy? Emma stepped closer, voice low. You looked me in the eye and lied about the hospital, about Telford, about her condition. You forced me to worry. I had nowhere to go. Did you laugh at me? Silly Emma fell for it?
No one laughed, James muttered, fists clenching. Mum just didnt want drama. She knows your temper. Youd never agree to give her that money for a resort.
Of course I wouldnt! Emma snapped. Because Im also a person! I work nonstop! Why should I foot the bill for your mothers joy while I rot here?
Dont speak like that about Mum! James roared. Shes elderly! She needs happiness!
Do I need happiness? Emmas smile was bitter. James, it isnt just about the cash. Its that you never saw me as a person. Im a resource to you: cook, clean, earn, stay silent, give. Mum is sacred. You can lie to Mum, you can stroll with her, but you treat me like a disposable tool.
James stammered, seeing his arguments crumble.
Ill go, Ill pay back. Ill earn and return everything. Its just a tragedy.
Return? Emma shook her head. No, James. Trust isnt something you can return. Neither is respect. I look at you now and see not a husband but a cowardly liar hiding behind his mothers skirt.
She walked to the hallway, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out a suitcasethe one she had planned to take to the sea.
You going anywhere? James asked, panic flickering in his eyes. Emma, thats enough. Lets just sleep. Tomorrow work.
Im not going anywhere, she said, voice steady. Youre the one whos leaving.
What do you mean? Where am I supposed to go? This is my flat too! James shouted, eyes wide.
No, dear. This flat was bought by me before we married. Youre only listed here, temporarily. Pack your things. Right now.
Youre kicking me out because of Mums trip? Youre serious? James choked, disbelief mixing with anger. Youre a mercenary witch! Money means more to you than family!
No, money means more than a family that treats me like a fool. Gather your stuff. Or Ill call the police and say youre an intruder refusing to leave.
James spent the next ten minutes screaming, stomping, accusing her of heartlessness, threatening divorce. Emma merely nodded, as if confirming his threats, while she sat in a chair, watching him toss shirts into a bag.
Youll regret this! he shouted as he reached the door. Youll be alone! No one needs you with that attitude! Mum was rightshe always said you dont love me!
Tell Mum hello, Emma said coolly. And tell her not to bring me any souvenirs. Ive had enough of your family.
The door slammed. Emma turned the lock twice, then added a chain.
Silence settled over the apartmentthe kind of hush she had dreamed of for weeks, now clean and resonant.
She returned to the laptop. The photo of Eleanor with the cocktail still glowed on the screen. Emma deleted the folder of screenshots; proof was no longer necessary.
She logged into her bank. A modest personal stashunknown to Jamesremained. Enough for a ticket.
She opened a travel site. Lastminute deals. Turkey. Flight in two days.
She clicked Book.
It would be a threestar hotel. She would travel alone. It would be her sea, her rest, her fresh start, free from lies and others whims.
She stepped onto the balcony, inhaled the scorching city air, and for the first time that summer, a genuine smile curved her lips. Freedom lay ahead.
