Eleanor Whitaker, what makes you think Im obliged to keep your son fed? Hes my husband, a bloke, and its his job to look after me, not the other way round. I snapped, my voice echoing off the sleek tiles of our London flat.
Megan, open up, love, its me! Ive brought fresh sausage rolls, just the way Paul likes em! a bright, insistent voice called from the hallway, leaving no room for pretending the house was empty. Megan wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, shot a heavy glance at me, and shuffled toward the door.
I sat at the table, staring into a cooling mug of tea, trying to look like a tormented poet caught in an existential slump. The knock didnt rattle me; it was just another nuisance from the world outside.
When the lock clicked, Megan forced a polite smile onto her face. On the doorstep stood Eleanor Whitaker a solidbuilt woman in a smart coat, her eyes sharp, a bag in her hand exuding the rich, homebaked smell of pastry. She didnt step in; she glided into the hallway, bringing with her an aura of undeniable righteousness.
Hello, Megan. You look pale, love. Not feeling well? she asked, shedding her coat and scanning the flat with a keen eye. Wheres Paul? In the kitchen? I thought so.
Without waiting for an invitation, Eleanor drifted straight into the kitchen. Her arrival instantly shattered the sterile order Megan prized. The gleaming steel surfaces and minimalist décor now seemed a poor backdrop for a motherinlaws display of concern. I finally tore my gaze from the mug and offered a hesitant nod, trying to summon a smile.
Mum, hi. Why so early? I asked.
Theres never a bad time for a mother, Eleanor declared, placing the bag of rolls on the table like a banner. I saw youve gone a bit thin, looking a touch down. Here, have a bite while theyre still warm.
Megan set the kettle on the hob, moving silently but with a tension that made every gesture feel like a performance in a play whose lines were all memorised. She knew the prelude: weather chat, distant relatives health, the price of groceries at the market. Once the small talk had fertilised the air, Eleanor would move to the main point.
Your place is always spotless, Megan. Sterile, even, the motherinlaw noted, running a finger over the countertop and sighing with relief at the lack of dust. But it could use a bit more cosy. A man needs warmth, especially when hes going through a rough patch.
Megan poured a cup of tea and set it before her.
Tea? Black or green?
Black, as usual. Paul, you should at least have a roll. Its still hot. You look so famished, its painful to watch, Eleanor cooed, nudging the plate toward me.
I sighed dramatically, picked up a roll, and turned it over in my hands as if it were some philosophical relic rather than a simple pastry. Not now, mum. Im thinking, I said, the words a coded signal.
Eleanors eyes sharpened; she pivoted toward Megan, her expression a practiced blend of sorrow and understanding honed over years.
You see, Megan, hes a creative soul, lost in his own head. He cant simply bounce from one phone call to the next. He needs space to rethink, to find a new direction. In moments like these, a womans wisdomoffering a shoulder when a man feels the weight of the worldmakes all the difference. Understanding, acceptance
Her voice slipped into a soft, enveloping tone, like a warm but suffocating blanket. I listened with a look of martyrdom, silently agreeing with every word. Megans kettle hissed, and the faint steam rising from the porcelain seemed the only honest thing in the room. She waited until Eleanor paused to catch her breath, then locked eyes with her. The silence stretched; Eleanors tone hardened.
Megan, Paul is struggling, you must support him, see things from his side
The words were the trigger. Megan placed the kettle on its stand with a crisp clack that cut through the quiet like a gunshot. She turned, the oncefriendly smile gone, replaced by a cold, direct stare at Eleanor. I instinctively pressed my head against the back of my chair, feeling the atmosphere shift.
Mrs. Whitaker, lets skip the dear, Megan said evenly, her voice devoid of feeling, making it sound even more threatening. Your son is a fortyyearold man, not a lost pup you need to shelter and warm. Ive already explained everything to him, without your riddles or sighs. Either he gets a jobany job, be it a warehouse hand or a couriertomorrow, or he packs his things and goes looking for himself with you.
The mask of sympathy fell from Eleanors face, revealing a hard, displeased expression. She straightened, her posture suddenly monumental.
And how do you propose
Exactly like that, Megan cut in, not raising her voice. She stepped to the table, fingertips resting lightly on its edge. You raised him this way, so youre partly to blame. I married a partner, not a venture demanding endless, unrecoverable investments. I have no ballast on my neck, thank you very much.
The word ballast hung in the air. I flinched as if struck, then found my voice.
Megan, what are you saying in front of my mother
Both women ignored me, their duel turning my weak protest into background noise.
I always knew you had no heart, Eleanor hissed, eyes narrowing. Only a calculator in your head. Money, money, money What about the soul? Do you even get creative burnout? Its not laziness! Its a man whos given everything to his work and now needs to recharge. And you, with your endless interviews! You want a genius delivering pizza?
Megan let out a short, silent laughfar scarier than a scream.
Genius? Dont make me laugh, Mrs. Whitaker. Your son isnt some delicate soul, hes a thickskinned infant youve coddled for forty years. Youve fed him pastries, brushed away his dust, told him hes special and misunderstood. He grew up convinced of his uniqueness, yet cant prove it beyond sighing over cold tea. His burnout struck the day he was asked to take responsibility.
Every word landed like a measured blow. Megan wasnt accusing; she was stating facts, and the cold precision was more humiliating than any tantrum. She passed judgement not only on me but on the whole upbringing Eleanor had provided.
My son is a gifted man! Eleanor thumped her palm on the table, making the cups jump. And youre a mercenary, coldhearted hag who only cares about money! Youd have him bring home a paycheck while his soul rots.
Exactly, Megan replied calmly. I couldnt care less about whats happening inside a man whos been lying on the sofa for weeks while his wife works to pay the rent. So spare me the womens wisdom. Youve already used yours, and the result sits here, unable to defend himself. Ive had enough. Finish your tea and take your seeker back. He needs a suitcase.
The word suitcase landed on the kitchen table like acid, corroding the thin veneer of family courtesy. I, suddenly more than a pale shadow, rose slowly, the movement theatrical, rehearsed. I pushed the untouched roll aside, as if renouncing the last tether to simple cravings, and stared at Megannot as a husband at his wife, but as a prophet at a misguided flock.
You never understood, I began, voice low but resonant, you kept trying to fit me into your paradigm: work, salary, holiday. The primitive cycle of mere existence. You only see the surface, Megan, the wrapper. Im speaking of the essence, the core!
Eleanor seized the moment, turning her fierce gaze on me.
Did you hear that? Did any of it make sense to you? Its too cramped in your little world, love!
I raised a hand, stopping her. This was my benediction.
I didnt quit as you put it in your crude terms, I said, stepping forward, adopting the tone of a lecturer. I left a system that grinds a person down to a cog. Im not looking for a job. Im seeking purpose. That, dear, is a different beast. It takes time, immersion, concentration. Its inner work, spiritual labour, far tougher than shuffling papers from nine to five.
I spoke, reveling in the sound of my own voice, empty platitudes painting me as an unappreciated titan forced to explain the universe to a barbarian fresh from discovering fire.
And what have you achieved in these two weeks of spiritual labour, Paul? Megan asked, icy calm that irritated me more than any shout. Discovered a new law of thermodynamics on the couch? Found Zen while bingewatching dramas?
Exactly! I snapped, pointing at the ceiling. You try to measure spiritual capital in material units! You cant grasp burnout when youre draining not the body but the soul! I gave my best years to that corporation, poured my energy in, and got emptiness in return. And instead of helping me refill, you demand I return to that slavery! For what? A new phone? A seaside holiday where people snap pictures of their meals?
Thats precisely why! Eleanor roared, her motherly fury spilling over. Hes a man of high flight! He needs a workhorse, not an eagle, to pull his carriage!
I watched their duelling duet, a hymn to selfjustification and infantility, feeling a dark, cold fire rise inside me. I looked at the fortyyearold man with preacherlike eyes, at his mother reverent yet angry, and the picture completed itself. This wasnt a family squabble; it was a clash of universes built on lies, ego, and a pathological refusal to take responsibility. I was done playing their game. I straightened, the tension snapping like a stretched string.
Eleanor Whitaker, why on earth do you think I should be the one to support your son? Hes my husband, a bloke, and its his duty to look after me, not the other way round! So take your protective talk and get out of here!
The words, hurled at my motherinlaw with raw, unfiltered rage, blew the kitchen apart. For a heartbeat, absolute silence settled, dust particles frozen in a sunbeam. I stood, mouth open, the preachers pose collapsing into that of a bewildered teenager. Eleanors face flushed crimson, a gasp escaping her lungs. She tried to shout, but I gave her no chance.
I no longer argued. Nothing could reverse what had happened. The fuse of patience, courtesy, and hope had burnt out. Without a word, I turned and left the kitchen, my steps measured, unhurried. Paul and Eleanor exchanged glances, bewilderment and a vague dread flickering in their eyes.
A minute later, Megan returned, hauling a large, navyblue suitcase on wheelsthe very one wed used for our honeymoon. She placed it in the centre of the kitchen, between the table and the stunned pair, snapped the locks, and flung the lid open. The empty cavity gaped like a statement.
Megan what are you doing? Paul stammered, finally finding his voice. He didnt hear her.
She walked to the tall wardrobe where his coat hung, and the first thing she tossed into the suitcase was the expensive cashmere coat shed given him for his birthday.
Thats for finding yourself in chilly realities, she said, voice flat as steel, not even glancing at the coat. Itll help you focus on lofty matters without freezing.
Next, she opened a drawer and pulled out his perfectly ironed shirts, one after another, shoving them into the case, crumpled, careless.
These are for interviews. For the role of a genius, a messiah, a spiritual guru. Usually such positions have no dress code, but lets add some gravitas. For the sake of appearance.
Paul watched this ritual with horror. It wasnt merely packing; it was a public disassembly of his identity. She took each item, each relic of his past, and stripped it of any meaning beyond pure utility.
Stop! Megan, cease this at once! he lunged, trying to grab her hand, but she sidestepped as though he were something filthy.
She moved to the shelf where his books layvolumes on selfdevelopment, philosophy, purpose. She gathered them all in a handful and tossed them atop the shirts.
And this is spiritual food! Youll need plenty on the road. Much more than the ordinary, because the ordinary, as weve learned, should be provided by someone else.
Eleanor, recovering from her shock, rushed at her.
Youve gone mad! Those are his things!
They were his. Now theyre yours, Megan replied, not turning. She lifted his laptop, placed it in a special compartment. Tool for seeking purpose. Or for bingewatching dramas. Depends on the level of enlightenment.
The last items to tumble into the suitcase were his shoes, thudding with a dull clang as if they were stones. She slammed the lid shut, clicked the locks, then pulled the handle and rolled the suitcase with a clatter right up to Eleanors boots, stopping a centimetre away.
Megan straightened, casting a long, heavy stare at both of us, devoid of pain or regret, only a cold, burnt emptiness. She met Eleanors eyes squarely.
You said your son was gifted. Take your gift and go. Ive had my fill. Process the return with the manufacturer.
Without another word, she turned and walked out, never looking back. We were left alone: a bewildered genius, his scarletfaced, humiliated mother, and a suitcase standing between us like a tombstone marking the ruin of our family life. The flat fell into a deafening silence that would never again be broken by the mundane rhythm of shared living.
