Mum, what did you say to my wife? She was on the verge of packing her bags!
I only told her the truth. You need to understand, shes not right for you. Someone like Emily would be so much better for you.
Emily? What are you talking about, Mum? Youre imagining things!
I always knew my son, Oliver, was unique. He was my first child, and I loved him above all else. When he grew up and got married, I just couldn’t come to terms with it. The thought that he might have found someone to replace me was unbearable. Parting with my beloved boy was pure agony, but in the end, I gave him over to another womans care.
Oliver is my pride, the absolute centre of my world. Id do anything for him. I raised him by myself, with my husband away for months serving abroad, so everything fell on my shoulders. I was mother and father bothlearning to fix a puncture in a bicycle tyre, playing football in the park, building forts with toy soldiers. I know he appreciates that. And I would go to any length to see him happy, because he is all I have.
But I could see it plain as day: his wife, Charlotte, didnt care for him the way I did. She never looked after him, never cooked a proper meal. Plates collected in the sink, her jumble of clothes scattered everywhereshe had no idea how to run a household.
Still, I needed to be near him. I wanted to protect him, as I always had. Every week Id let myself quietly into their flat with the key hed given me, while they were at work, pick up his dirty washing, take it home, and return it sparkling clean and ironed. I kept out of sight of that shrewshe never saw me come or go.
I cant simply let him fend for himself, can I? Hes overwhelmed with work and study and yet his wife, after three years married, still cant wash his socks or press his trousers. Who else will do it, if not me?
I used a gentle detergent for his shirts, knowing hes allergic to the normal onesnot that she cared. Shed lump all the washing together in one load, then peg it up to dry, haphazard and careless. The jumper I knitted him for his birthday ended up stretched and bobbly because she drenched it in scalding water then slung it out on the line like an old rag. I had to unravel and reknit it myself in the end. Its easier to do everything properly myself than fix her mistakes.
Charlotte never gets why I bother. She says its not her job and I should teach Oliver to be more independent. But how can I leave him with a mountain of dirty laundry when his wife cant keep a halfway decent house? I adore my son and want the very best for him. If that means I do his washing, then so be it.
My husband has scolded me more than once, accusing me of interfering too much, telling me Oliver made his own choice and must live with the consequences. But how can I rest easy while my boy comes home, cooking, cleaning, ironing, and she lounges on the sofa watching telly?
So I decided, one last time, to do all his washing. Early one morning, while they were both out, I gathered up everythingeven some of her dirty clothes, theyd started to stink and shed likely toss them in with his freshly laundered things later. I bundled it all up and got to work, sending my husband round to his mates for the day so I could focus.
I washed extra blankets, too. By the end, Id filled a massive bag with clean linens and clothes. Luckily, their flat was only just round the corner, so it wasnt too far to haul the lot. He lived on the fourth floor and my knees arent what they used to be, but the lift was out of order that daytypical. I had no choice but to lug the bag up the stairs, one painful step at a time.
It must have taken me over an hour, and I could hardly catch my breath from the effort and the worry gnawing at me. I wondered if Oliver would ever have someone whod love him as much as I do, or at least look after him properly. I cried the whole way up. I just wanted my son to be happy, safe, and well cared for.
Finally, at his door, I let myself in, as always, silently dropping the bag inside. Didnt want to rouse the neighbours terrierit starts yapping at the faintest noise. Then I noticed unfamiliar shoes strewn in the hallway. Odd, I thought. Maybe theyd come home early, and shed left her shoes about again, just like always.
I made my way to the bedroom, spotting Olivers trousers on the floor by the door. Perhaps Id missed them before the wash. As I bent to pick them up, I heard noises from inside. I looked upand there was my son, with another woman in their bed. She had dark hairnot Charlottes blonde.
I froze. Oliver spotted me and yelled, Mum, get out! Seriously, cant I even breathe without you barging in? Blushing, I pulled the door to and said, Please, could I just have a word, Oliver? After a while, he came out to the kitchen in the dressing gown Id given him.
Mum, why are you here? Do you still have a key?
Of course, dear. You gave it to me last year so I could drop by whenever I needed. I said meekly.
Well, Mum, most people say when theyre coming over. he sighed, exasperated.
I told you Id come to do your laundry, didnt I?
I thought youd be here tomorrow. he snapped, turning away.
I hesitated, Sorry, Oliver, but did Charlotte dye her hair, then?
No, Mum. Thats not Charlotte. Thats someone else. He looked sheepish.
Are you having an affair?
Youre probably judging me now, arent you, Mum?
Not at all, darling. Its your life, you decide.
He loosened a little then. To be honest, Mum, I prefer Emily. Charlotte only cares about her career, never about the flat. Emily dropped by, cooked lunch, tidied up the kitchen, and actually seems kind and thoughtfulthe sort whod look after her man. But I suppose Ill stick with Charlotte. This is just a fling.
As you wish, Oliver. Whatever you do, Ill always stand by you. Ive washed your clothes in that special detergent you like. Here, your things are in the cupboard. I wont interfere again, not if a woman like Emily is around to care for you. With that, I left his flat, my heart lighter.
I was so pleased hed finally found a good woman. The kitchen sparkled, floors shone, soup simmered gentlyEmily was neat, pleasant, warm. No doubt in my mind why Charlotte had been passed over: Oliver recognises grace and orderand knows when theres nothing but mess.
About a week passed and all was calm. One afternoon I went to the shop near my house and there was Charlotte, as usual, filling her basket with overpriced, bizarre bits: avocados, some green fruit I didnt recognise, rye crispbreads, buckwheat, and kefir. I went over.
Oh, Charlotte, are you dieting now?
Hello, Mrs. Barnes. Yes, Oliver and I are going on a diet. We want to look our best for the holiday in Bali. She was as brisk and cold as ever.
Hows that, with my Oliver? Havent you two split up?
Pardon? Whats got into you?
Well, hes with someone else now, isnt heEmily?
Whos Emily? What are you talking about? Weve not fallen out at all.
But Emily was round, making herself comfortable, sprucing up the kitchen, andwell. I thought youd know by now. I thought it only right to congratulate you. Now you can find someone who enjoys buckwheat as much as you do.
The kitchen? Emily? You really have lost it. Its not enough you turn Oliver against me, now youre inviting random girls into our home? I get it. Please, just let us live our lives. Honestly, Mrs. Barnes, were suffocating here! Charlotte hurled the basket down and marched out of the shop. I didnt know she could kick up such a fuss. Even more surprising was Oliver giving up Emily and sticking with the iron-fisted Charlotte.
Not long after, my phone rang. Olivers name flashed up.
Hello, love, is everything all right? I asked softly, the way I always did.
Mum, what did you say to Charlotte? She was about to move out!
I told her the truth. Shes not right for you, Oliver. Emily wouldve been much better.
Whos Emily? What are you on about?
I saw what went on. I thought youd chosen her, I thought you and Charlotte were over.
Were not over, Mum. There never was anyone called Emily! Im changing the locks, stop calling us. Forget about me. As far as Im concerned, you dont exist anymore.
