Eleanor Whitaker, on what ground do you think Im obliged to support your son? Hes my husband, a manhe should be supporting me, not the other way round.
The front door burst open with a cheerful shout.
Emma, let me in! Ive got fresh pastry, cabbage like Paul loves it!
The voice was bright, insistent, leaving no room for pretending the house was empty. Emma dabbed her hands on a kitchen towel, cast a heavy glance at her husband. Paul sat at the table, staring at a cooling cup of coffee, his posture that of a tormented genius lost in an existential whirlpool. He ignored his mothers arrival as if the knock were merely a nuisance of the imperfect world outside.
Emma forced a polite smile as she turned the lock. On the doorstep stood Eleanor Whitakera solidshouldered woman in a sturdy coat, eyes sharp and heavy, a bag in hand that reeked of freshly baked dough. She didnt step in; she glided into the hallway, her presence wrapped in an unmistakable aura of righteousness.
Hello, Emma. Why so pale? Feeling faint? she asked, shedding her coat and scanning the flat with a scrutinising gaze. Wheres Paul? In the kitchen? I thought so.
Without waiting for an invitation, Eleanor swept into the kitchen, instantly shattering the immaculate order Emma prized. The sleek steel countertops and minimalist décor now looked like the wrong stage for a display of maternal concern. Paul finally tore his eyes from the mug and gave a weak nod, a smile flickering at the edge.
Mum, hi. Why so early?
Theres no such thing as too early for a mother, love, Eleanor declared, placing the bag of pastries on the table like a banner. Youve been looking gaunt, slumped. I brought something to warm you up. Eat while its hot.
Emma set a kettle on the stove in silence. She moved fluidly, almost soundlessly, yet every gesture trembled with inner tension. She felt like an actress in a stale play, reciting lines shed heard a hundred times. The prelude was about to begin: weather, distant relatives health, market prices. Once the surface was properly buttered, Eleanor would move to the main course.
Your place is always spotless, Emma. Sterile even, the motherinlaw observed, running a finger over the countertop and sighing with relief at the lack of dust. But theres not enough warmth. A man needs comfort, especially now that hes in a rough patch.
Emma placed a cup before her.
Tea? Black or green?
Black, as always. Paul, at least have a pastry. Its still hot. You look so listless, it hurts to watch, Eleanor nudged the plate toward her son.
Paul sighed theatrically, lifted the pastry, and turned it over in his hands as if it were some philosophical relic rather than a simple cabbage bun.
Not now, Mum. Ive got thoughts.
It was a cue, a signal. Eleanors focus sharpened instantly; she turned to Emma with a look of practiced sorrow, the kind honed over years.
You see, love, hes lost in himself, searching. Creative souls cant just chug life from door to door. He needs time to rethink, to find a new path. In moments like this, a womans wisdom is to lend a shoulder when a man falters. To understand, to accept
Her voice was soft, enveloping the room like a stifling blanket. Paul listened with a martyrs expression, silently agreeing with every word. Emma poured boiling water into cups, the gentle steam rising from the porcelain the only honest movement in the kitchen. She waited for Eleanor to pause, then stared her straight in the eyes. The pause stretched, and Eleanors tone hardened.
Emma, Paul is struggling, you must support him, step into his shoes
The words fired the trigger of a loaded gun. Emma placed the kettle on its stand with exaggerated care; the clink of metal rang sharp and final in the silence. She turned slowly, the hospitality smile gone. Her gaze was cold and direct, locked on her motherinlaw. Pauls shoulders tensed as the atmosphere shifted.
Eleanor Whitaker, lets drop the pet names, Emma said, her voice flat, emotionless, making it sound even more threatening. Your son is a fortyyearold man, not a lost pup you need to shelter and warm. Ive explained everything to him clearly, without your riddles or sighs. Either he lands any job tomorrowporter, courier, whateveror he packs his things and comes find you.
Eleanors mask of sympathy fell, revealing a hard, displeased expression. She sat up straighter, her figure becoming monumental.
And how would you?
Exactly like that, Emma cut in, not raising her voice. She stepped toward the table, fingertips brushing its edge. You raised him this waynow you act the victim. I married a partner, not a venture that demands endless, unrecoverable investment. I have no ballast on my neck.
The word ballast hung in the air. Paul flinched, as if struck, and finally spoke.
Emma, what are you saying in front of my mother
Neither woman turned to him. Their duel continued, his weak protest merely background noise.
I always knew you had no heart, Eleanor hissed, eyes narrowing. Only a calculator. Money, money, money What about the soul? Do you even grasp creative burnout? It isnt laziness! Its a man whos given everything to his work and now needs to be refilled. And you, with your interview prep! You want a genius delivering pizza?
Emma let out a short, soundless laughfar scarier than a scream.
Genius? Dont be absurd. Your son isnt some delicate spirit; hes a thick layer of infantile dependency youve nurtured for forty years. Youve doused him with pastries, whispered hes special and misunderstood. He grew up convinced of his uniqueness, yet can prove it only with sighs over cold coffee. His burnout struck the day he was asked to take responsibility.
Every word was a precise blow. Emma wasnt accusing; she was stating facts, and that cold factuality was more humiliating than any hysteria. She sentenced not only Paul but the whole upbringing Eleanor had crafted.
My son is gifted! Eleanor slammed her palm on the table, sending cups bouncing. And youre a mercenary hag who cant see his talent! You only care about money, not whats happening inside his head!
Exactly, Emma replied calmly. I couldnt care less about the turmoil of a man who spends two weeks on the couch while his wife works to pay the rent for the flat he lies in. So spare me the womens wisdom. Youve already applied yourslook at the result, sitting before me, unable to defend himself. Ive had enough. Finish your tea and take your seeker with you. He needs to pack his suitcase.
The word suitcase landed on the kitchen table like acid, eating away the thin veneer of family propriety. Paul, until now a pale shadow clinging to his mother, straightened. He rose slowly, theatrical, and pushed the untouched pastry aside as if renouncing the last tie to mundane cravings, then faced Emmanot as a husband to a wife, but as a prophet to a misguided flock.
You never understood, he began, voice low but resonant. You always tried to fit me into your paradigm: work, salary, holiday. The primitive cycle of existence. You only see the surface, Emma, the wrapper. I speak of essence, of the core!
Eleanor seized the moment, turning her gaze triumphantly on Emma.
Do you hear him? Do you understand a single word he says? He feels cramped in your little world!
Paul raised a hand, halting her.
I didnt just quit as you simplistically put it, he said, stepping forward, assuming the role of lecturer. I left a system that crushes identity, turns a person into a cog. Im not looking for a job. Im searching for purpose. Thats a different beast, requiring time, immersion, concentration. Its inner work, a spiritual labour far harder than shuffling papers from nine to five.
He spoke, intoxicated by his own sound, painting himself as an unappreciated titan forced to explain universal laws to a barbarian fresh from firemaking.
And what have you achieved in these two weeks of spiritual labour, Paul? Emma asked, icy calm that irritated him more than any shout. Discovered a new thermodynamic law on the couch? Or found zen while bingewatching series?
There! Thats it! he gestured upward. You try to measure spiritual capital in material units! You cant fathom burnout when you drain not the body but the soul! I gave my best years to that corporation, my energy, and got emptiness. Instead of helping me refill, you demand I return to that servitude! For what? A new phone model? A seaside holiday where people photograph food?
Exactly! Thats the point! Eleanor shouted, pouring all her maternal fury into the words. She doesnt grasp that your son is a highflier! She needs a workhorse, not an eagle, to pull her carriage!
Emma absorbed the duet, a hymn to selfjustification and infantility, feeling something dark and cold rise within her. She stared at the fortyyearold man with preacherlike eyes, at his mother reverencing her child, and the picture completed. This was no family quarrel; it was a clash of universes built on lies, ego, and a pathological refusal to take responsibility. She would not play their game any longer. She straightened, her calm snapping like an overtuned string.
Eleanor Whitaker, on what basis do you think I should support your son? Hes my husband, a man, and he should support me, not the other way round! So take your protective talk and leave!
The sentence exploded across the kitchen, creating a moment of absolute vacuum where even dust motes seemed frozen in the sunlight. Paul froze, mouth open, his preachers pose collapsing into the awkward slump of a bewildered teen. Eleanors face flushed, a gasp escaping her lungs. She wanted to shout, but Emma gave her no chance.
Emma turned and left the kitchen, steps measured, unhurried. Paul and Eleanor exchanged bewildered looks, a mix of confusion and unease.
A minute later Emma returned, dragging a large navy suitcase on wheelsthe same one theyd used for their honeymoon. She placed it in the centre of the floor, between the table and the stunned pair, clicked the lock, and flung the lid open. Inside lay a hollow void, a stark statement.
Emma what are you doing? Paul stammered, finally finding his voice. She didnt look at him. She walked to the tall wardrobe, lifted his expensive cashmere coat a birthday gift and tossed it into the suitcase.
Thats for finding yourself in cold realities, she said, voice flat as steel, not glancing at the garment. It helps you focus on lofty matters without freezing.
She opened a drawer, pulled out a stack of his impeccably pressed shirts, and dumped them, crumpled, into the case.
And these are for interviews. For the role of a genius, a messiah, a spiritual guru. Dress code may not be required, but it adds gravitas.
Paul watched the ritual with horror. This wasnt merely packing; it was a public execution of his identity. She added his books on selfhelp and philosophy, shoving the whole pile atop the shirts.
Spiritual food for the road, she declared. Youll need it more than any ordinary fare, because ordinary now has to be provided by someone else.
Eleanor, recovering from the shock, lunged.
Youve gone mad! Those are his things!
They were his. Now theyre yours, Emma snapped, not turning. She placed his laptop in a special compartment. Tool for seeking purpose. Or for watching series. Depends on your level of enlightenment.
Finally, his shoes clattered into the suitcase with a dull thud, like stones. She slammed the lid, snapped the locks, and hauled the suitcase toward Eleanors feet, stopping a breath away from her boots.
Emma stood, eyes cold, delivering one last glance that held neither pain nor remorse, only a burntout emptiness.
You said your son was gifted. Take your gift back. Ive had my fill. Return it to the manufacturer.
Without looking back, she walked out, leaving the three of them the bewildered genius, his flushed mother, and the suitcase acting as a gravestoneto the deafening silence that settled over the flat, a silence that would never again be broken by their shared domestic life.
