28July
Ive been wrestling with the same argument for weeks now, and today it finally tipped over. George slammed his calculator onto the kitchen table, rubbed his nose, and stared at me as if the very thought of a seaside break was an affront to his frugality.
Poppy, youve seen the prices at Brighton, havent you? We agreed to tighten the belt this year. The roof on the cottage needs fixing, the cars service is due, and the economy feels as shaky as a rickety ladder. Every penny counts, and you keep dreaming of the sea. His tone was sharp, and I could feel the weight of his exhaustion pressing down on me.
I stood by the window, watching the sweltering asphalt melt under the July heat. I ached for the salty breeze, the roar of the waves, a whole week of doing nothing but lying flat, far from quarterly reports, endless budgeting, and the perpetual grind of making do.
George, we havent been away for three years, I whispered without turning. My holiday is burning away. Weve saved a modest sum in that box on the top shelfjust enough for two people, if were realistic. Not a fivestar resort, just a cosy guesthouse.
He poured himself a lukewarm tea and retorted, We cant be modest now. Tickets have jumped, groceries are practically gold. If we spend everything, whats left? Well be left shivering in winter, begging for warmth. No, Poppy. This year we stay home. Well go to the cottage by my parents farm, breathe the fresh countryside air. Its practically a resort, and we can help Mum with her cucumber patch and the harvest.
I sighed. Arguing with George when he slipped into his prudent husband mode felt futile. He always managed to twist any discussion so that I seemed selfish, a spendthrift who only cared about personal pleasure while he bore the weight of the familys responsibilities.
Fine, I gave in, a hollow disappointment bubbling inside. The cottage is the cottage. Just dont expect me to stand at the stove from dawn till dusk. I need a break.
His voice softened, Good. Thats settled. The money will stay safe. We still have to renew the insurance.
The next two weeks droned on in the stifling city heat. I trudged to work, dreaming of the airconditioner George called a luxury (Open a window and youll get a draught, why waste electricity?). I counted the days until my supposed holiday. The thought of spending two weeks at my motherinlaw Agness cottage in the Lake District didnt thrill me, but it was better than being cooped up in a concrete flat.
Three days before our planned escape, everything changed. I was frying mince pies, trying not to think about the kitchen turning into a furnace, when Georges phone rang. He answered, and his face shifted from relaxed to anxious in an instant.
Yes, Mum what? Blood pressure again? The doctors? He muttered. Right, well find the money. Dont worry, health comes first. He hung up and turned to me, his expression tragic.
Poppy, bad news. Mum called. Shes seriously unwellblood pressure spikes, heart fluttering, legs trembling. The doctor said she needs immediate treatment, not just pills but a full regimen of rest and specialised care.
Will she be hospitalised? I asked, turning off the stove.
Worse. The doctor recommended a specialist sanatorium in the Midlands, somewhere with a gentle climate. Its a cardiac rehab centre with baths and massages. He warned that without it she could suffer a stroke. Shes my only mother; my father died early. If anything happens to her, Ill never forgive myself.
George began pacing the kitchen, his nerves evident.
So the cottage plan is off. We have to send her to the sanatorium. I looked up costs back in spring when her first symptoms appearedits not cheap. The package, travel, treatments all paid.
How much are we talking about?
He hesitated, Almost everything wed set aside for the holiday and the cottage repairs, plus a bit from my salary. But its my mother, Poppy! You cant put a price on health. Were young, well manage, and she needs help now.
Everything we saved for the holiday and the roof? I pressed, feeling a knot form in my throat. Thats about £1,500, right? How can a twoweek stay in the Midlands cost that much?
The sanatorium is topnotchfull board and treatment! Are you really going to skimp on money for an old lady? He snapped. I didnt expect you to be so cold about it. A dying person and youre counting pennies!
I bit my lip, the accusation cutting deep. He loved to wield that weapon. Of course I couldnt say no; refusing treatment for his mother would be heartless.
I dont mind, I said softly. Just fine. Let her go. Health is priority.
He immediately embraced me, kissed my forehead, Thank you, love. I knew youd understand. Youre my treasure. Ill drive to her tomorrow, take the money, and see her to the train station. They suggested a sanatorium near Mansfield, they say the airs healing.
The next day George emptied our hidden stash. I watched, a heavy envelope sliding into his bag, feeling the sting of loss. I stayed in the cityalone, on a holiday that felt more like a punishment, without sea, without cottage, without spare cash for a coffee out.
George returned late, exhausted but satisfied. Its done, he sighed, collapsing onto the sofa. Mum fought, cried, didnt want the money. She said, How can you kids not have a break? I coaxed her, said wed still be working as planned.
Will she call when she arrives? I asked.
The signals lousy up there, deep in the woods. The sanatoriums remote, they want her to turn the phone off to protect her heart. Shell call the reception every few days, if at all. Dont bother her, let her rest.
My holiday began with endless cleaning, trying to keep my hands and mind occupied. The heat never eased; the city seemed to melt around me. George went to work, returned each evening and talked about how hard this period was, how much he worried about his mother.
Did she call? Id ask each night.
She did, hed nod. Her voice sounds brighter. Shes on the treatment, eating a diet, bored but the air is goodpine trees, silence. Exactly what the doctor prescribed.
A small relief fluttered inside me; at least something good came of the sacrifice.
A week later, I perched on the balcony with my laptop, scrolling lazily through social mediasomething I rarely did, but boredom pushed me. Photos of friends on sunny beaches, cocktails, tanned bodies. Everyones at the sea, except me, I thought bitterly.
An algorithm tossed me a suggestion: You may know this person. A picture of a plump woman in a widebrimmed hat and oversized sunglasses appeared. I flicked past it, but my finger froze; the turn of her head, the fuchsia lipstick, felt eerily familiar.
I went back. The profile was Lucy Lovely. My eyebrows knit. Lucy? I didnt know any Lucy. I clicked.
It was an open page of my motherinlaws sister, Lucy, a lifelong friend of Agnes since school. Their bond had always seemed inseparable.
The latest post, three hours ago, was geotagged Brighton, Seaside Town. I opened the photo.
In the image, beside a turquoise pool and palmlike trees, two women sat at a table. Tall glasses of colourful cocktails with tiny umbrellas rested beside a plate of massive prawns.
One of the women was Lucy. The other
I zoomed in. My heart lurched. The second woman, in a bright leopardprint bikini and a semitransparent sarong, laughed loudly, head thrown back. Around her neck glimmered a gold chain with a bulky pendantexactly the necklace James and I had given her last year for her birthday.
It was Agnes, my supposed ailing motherinlaw, now lounging in Brighton, not a sanatorium in the Midlands.
My hands trembled as I kept scrolling. Yesterdays picture: Were on the banana boat! Feeling brilliant! Agnes perched on an inflatable ride, arms raised, the sea spraying around her.
The day before: Evening promenade, live music, a cheeky skewer with brandy. She swayed in a elegant dress, dancing with a gentleman.
Three days ago: Checked in! Deluxe room with sea view! Thanks, dear kids, for the gift! The caption read, Thanks, dear kids.
Darkness settled in my eyes. The kids whod given her this gift were obviously not me. Only one kid had been kept in the dark, handing over the last of our savings for a treatment.
I sat frozen for a few minutes, replaying Georges words: No money, Youre a spendthrift, Mums dying, The signals bad.
I felt foolish, naïve, a gullible fool. I took screenshots of every photo, saved them in a folder, then stood, poured myself a glass of water, the clink of glass against teeth echoing my rising anger. Cold, calculated fury replaced the earlier hurt.
George would be back in an hour. I decided not to start a scene at the door; that would be too easy. I prepared dinner, set the table, and when the lock clicked, I met him with a smile.
Hey love, how was your day?
Oh, exhausted, he muttered, slipping off his shoes. The office aircon broke; we nearly boiled. Anything to eat?
Of course. Everythings on the table.
We sat down; he wolfed down his stew, rattling off supplier woes. I nodded, adding a bit more spice here and there.
Hows Mum? I asked, eyes fixed on him. Did she call today?
He froze midbite, then swallowed. She called this afternoon, just a minute. The signals terrible, cuts out constantly. She says the treatments are tough, shes tired. The doctor put her on bedrest, so she spends most of her time reading. She misses us.
Poor thing, I murmured, clutching a napkin so hard my fingers went white. Shes lying there, in the middle of nowhere. Whats the weather like up there? Rainy? It must be gloomy in the Midlands.
Its cloudy and cool. But heats not good for her blood pressure, so its perfect, he replied.
Right. I took a breath. George, Ive been thinking maybe we could visit her for the weekend? Bring some groceries? Its only a fivehour drive.
He choked, his face flushing. Youre insane! They dont let outsiders in! Its a closedoff facility, strict rulesquarantine, you name it. She needs peace; if we show up shell get agitated, her pressure will spike. The doctor explicitly forbade visits.
What kind of strict doctor, I said, shaking my head. Fine then. A pity, Id have baked her a cake.
I moved to the side table where the laptop lay. By the way, George, look at this. I found a sanatorium onlinegreat reviews. Maybe we could book it for next year?
He leaned over, sighing, Whats that?
I opened the folder of screenshots, expanded the first image to full screen.
Look at that pool, those palmsjust like the one in the Midlands, isnt it? They say climate change is doing wonders.
George stared at the screen, his eyes widening. He recognized the bikini, the hat, the familiar gold chain. The silence in the room grew heavy, punctuated only by the hum of the fridge.
What what is this? his voice cracked.
Its its a picture of Agnes on a beach, drinking a PinaColada, I said, clicking to the next picture where she rode the banana boat. Looks like a therapeutic activity, right? Hydromassage in the open sea. And hereher dancing night, her promenade.
George recoiled as if the screen were fire. My face remained calm, and that terrified him more.
I can explain he began.
Explain, I prompted, leaning forward. Im listening. Tell me how were stuck in this sweltering city, eating pasta, scrimping on toilet paper, while your dying mum is sunbathing on a holiday with the money I saved for our break.
He fumbled for words. Shes really ill! The doctor said sea air, iodine she needed it. I knew youd oppose it, you always harp on saving, on our own needs. And her lifeher healthwas at stake, George! When would she see the sea again?
Saving?! I rose slowly from my chair. Did you hear yourself? You were the one who barred me from buying a ticket, who said there was no money, who made me feel guilty for wanting a pause. And you secretly bought a seaside package for her, costing about £1,500?
No, not £1,500! he shouted, trying to regain footing. It was cheaper! It was my money too! I earn, I have the right to help my mother!
My money? Who pays the mortgage? I do. Who buys the groceries? I do. Your salary disappears into the car, your gadgets, that rainyday fund you just emptied for Mum. We saved together. You stole it.
He protested, I didnt steal, I took it! She raised me! I owe her!
What do I owe you for? Lies? Hypocrisy? I moved close, my voice low. You looked at me straight in the eye and lied about the sanatorium, about the Midlands, about her condition. You made me panic. Did you and she laugh at me? Silly Poppy fell for it?
No one laughed, he snapped, fists clenched. She just didnt want drama. She knows your temper! Youd never agree to give her that money for a resort!
Does she need joy? I asked bitterly. Do I not deserve joy? This isnt just about the cash. Its about respect. You see me as a utilitycook, clean, earn, stay silent. Your mother is sacred, you can lie to her, you can wander off with her, but Im the expendable.
He tried to argue, but his words fell flat. You can just go, have a holiday. Well sort it later. Ill earn back the money. Its no big deal.
Earn it back? I shook my head. Trust isnt something you can repay. Neither is respect. I look at you now and I see not a husband but a cowardly liar hiding behind his mothers skirt.
I opened the wardrobe, pulled out the suitcase Id packed for the seaside.
What are you doing? he asked, eyes wide. Poppy, stop. Lets just sleep. Tomorrow work.
Im not going anywhere, I replied evenly. Youre the one leaving.
What? Where am I supposed to go? This is my flat too!
This flat belongs to me, bought before we married. Youre only a tenant, and thats temporary. Pack your things. Right now.
He stammered, Youre evicting me because of Mums trip? Seriously? Youre a mercenary! Money is more important than family!
No, family that treats me like a fool is less important. Gather your clothes, or Ill call the police and say a stranger refuses to leave.
He shouted, Youll regret this! Youll end up alone! Nobody wants someone like you!
Ill say hello to Mum for you, I said coolly. Tell her not to bring me any souvenirs. Ive had enough of your family.
He stormed out, slamming the door. I locked it twice, then chained the bolt. Silence settled, the kind Id been craving for dayssharp, cleansing.
I returned to the laptop. The photo of Agnes with the cocktail still glowed. I deleted the screenshot folder; I no longer needed proof.
I logged into my bank. A modest personal stash Id hidden from George remained untouchedjust enough for a ticket.
I opened a travel site. Lastminute deals. Turkey. Departing in two days.
I clicked Book. Yes, a threestar hotel, Id travel alone. It would be my sea, my rest, my new lifefree from lies and selfish whims.
I stepped onto the balcony, inhaled the stale city air, and for the first time this summer I truly smiled. Freedom lay ahead.
