“What on earth is this?” Emily snapped, standing in the middle of the living room, barely hiding her irritation.
Her voice trembled with frustration as she scanned the room, as if searching for answers among the furniture.
“Again? For the third time this month! How much longer?”
On the sofa, lounging against the cushions, sat James. His phone in one hand, the TV remote in the other. He glanced at his wife, his expression indifferent, as it always was when the subject was his mother.
“What do you mean, ‘again’?” he asked, squinting slightly. “Don’t start another row. I just got home. I want to relax.”
“A row?” Emily took a step forward, her voice rising. “You call this a row? Five hundred pounds! Just like that! No explanation, no questions! You didn’t even ask what she needed it for—just transferred it!”
James set his phone down with a quiet sigh, his face tired rather than surprised.
“So what? She’s my mum. If she needs money, I help. What’s the issue?”
Emily moved closer, her cheeks flushed.
“The issue is we’re saving for a country cottage! We agreed—every penny goes towards our shared goal! And every month, you pour money into some black hole! Medicine, repairs, now these ‘unexpected expenses’—maybe she fancied a new iPhone?”
James rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighing again.
“She’s getting on, Emily. She struggles on her own. Sometimes it’s easier to just help.”
“Getting on? She’s only sixty-five! She’s more active than you! Gallivanting to the theatre, country clubs, guided tours! And us? We have to give up our dreams for her whims?”
“Emily—” James’ voice sharpened for the first time. “Don’t talk about my mum like that. She raised me.”
“She raised *you*, James. Not me. And yes, I’m grateful. But that doesn’t mean she can demand money whenever she likes! We live on one salary. My freelance work is unpredictable. You know this.”
And he did know. After the marketing agency where Emily had been creative director shut down, she’d switched to freelancing. There was work, but income was erratic. Their budget was fragile as glass. Every unnecessary expense—another crack.
They’d dreamed of a cottage. For nearly three years, the idea had lived inside them—a little house outside London, a terrace with climbing roses, barbecues with friends, cosy evenings by the fire. But each time their savings neared the goal, something happened: his mother’s repairs, dental bills, new wallpaper, a new appliance… And back to square one.
“I’m just tired,” Emily said quietly, stepping towards the window. “Tired of always coming second. Tired of feeling like we’re sacrificing our dreams while your mum lives in comfort.”
James approached from behind but didn’t embrace her.
“She’s unwell, Em. She needs help.”
“Unwell with what? An insatiable need to shop and travel? Have you *ever* checked where that money goes? She holidays abroad, buys designer handbags, dines out—meanwhile, we haven’t had a proper holiday in ten years!”
“Enough,” James said firmly, though his voice had dulled again. “I don’t want to argue.”
“Of course you don’t!” Emily whirled to face him. “You never want to talk when it’s about your mum. To you, she’s a saint. And I’m the villain trying to ruin her life. But I don’t want to ruin anything! I just want fairness. And *our cottage*!”
James fell silent. His shoulders stiffened, gaze dropping to the floor. Emily knew that look. He wouldn’t argue. He’d stay quiet, as always. And in a few hours, he’d leave, pretending nothing happened.
“Fine,” he muttered. “I’m going to bed.”
And he walked out, leaving her standing alone.
Emily stayed by the window, staring at the dark sky. The stars blinked coldly, uncaring. She knew nothing would change unless James made a choice. He was too used to being a son—not a husband. And too devoted to his mother to hear his wife.
—
Morning brought coffee, a run, and the heavy weight of exhaustion. Emily stepped outside, hoping the crisp air would clear her head. Sometimes she ran to forget. Today, she ran to understand.
When she returned, James was getting ready for work. His expression had softened slightly—but not enough.
“Listen, Em,” he said, adjusting his tie. “I’ll talk to Mum. I promise.”
Emily studied him.
“About what? Asking her to stop spending *our* money? You know that won’t work. She justifies herself better than any MP.”
“I’ll try,” he said, still avoiding her eyes. “Maybe this time it *was* something important. I just didn’t ask.”
“Of course. It’s always important. Especially when it’s *her* wants.” She sighed, the familiar weariness settling in.
“Alright, I’ve got to go. We’ll talk tonight.” He kissed her forehead and left.
Alone again, the flat felt oppressively silent.
—
They’d met at a mutual friend’s party. Back then, everything was different. James had been attentive, confident, even a little romantic. Emily had been full of ideas and faith in love. They’d balanced each other—day and night.
She’d met Margaret before the wedding. The woman was sharp, shrewd, with a gaze that could pin you in place and a voice that could silence with a single inflection.
“I hope you’ll make my son happy,” Margaret had said, scrutinising her. “He’s special.”
At the time, Emily thought it was maternal concern. Now, she knew better. It had been a warning.
After the wedding, they moved into their own flat. Margaret lived alone. And with each passing month, her calls grew more frequent. At first, helping family seemed natural. But soon, it became an obligation.
Once, while visiting, Emily overheard Margaret bragging to a neighbour about the washing machine James had bought her.
“The old one was noisy,” she’d said smugly. “Jamie insisted on getting the best.”
Emily had stiffened. The old one worked fine. Margaret just wanted an upgrade. And James, of course, paid.
That’s when Emily understood—her mother-in-law wasn’t just asking for help. She was controlling her son.
So they’d schemed. Stopped sharing their plans. Quietly, without fanfare, they’d saved for a house. When they finally had enough for a mortgage, they’d moved fast—no announcements, no celebrations. Just keys, smiles, hope.
But Margaret had shown up anyway. Her first words?
“You could’ve told me, Jamie. I’d have helped.”
“Mum, we managed,” James had said.
Margaret smiled, but something flickered in her eyes—something like resentment. Or the sting of losing control.
Their flat was cosy, but too small for Emily’s restless spirit. She loved order, light, space—things their cramped home couldn’t give. Over time, she realised she needed more. Not just to *live*—but to breathe, to feel the earth beneath her, to see trees instead of concrete. The cottage dream had started quietly, then grown until it consumed her. She imagined a little house in the countryside, a garden, friends around a fire. That dream kept her going when their life felt like an endless cycle of rent and scrimping.
James, seeing her longing, agreed. He’d always supported her happiness. So they’d started saving again. But soon, their budget began to “leak”—from the same place: Margaret.
A week after their latest fight over money, Emily was working at her desk when the doorbell rang. Margaret stood on the doorstep—impeccably dressed, leather handbag in hand, smiling in a way that set off alarm bells.
“Hello, darling! Jamie said you’d be home. Thought I’d pop round for tea.”
Emily forced a smile. Margaret never visited without an agenda.
“Of course, come in.”
Margaret inspected the flat like an inspector.
“Lovely place! So bright, so tidy. You’re such a good homemaker, Emily.”
They sat at the kitchen table. The tea was brewed, but the air was tense.
“Darling,” Margaret began, voice lowered. “I’ve been thinking… Jamie’s so busy with work, and I’m alone so often. It gets lonely.”
Emily watched her warily.
“And?”
“Well…” Margaret paused for effect. “Some friends were telling me about their countryside homes. Peace, fresh air. So I thought—” She met Emily’s eyes. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if you had a cottage?”
Emily nearly choked.
“A cottage?”
“Of course! Jamie said you’re saving for one.”
Emily’s jaw tightened. So he’d told her. Again. Without discussing it.
“We *are* saving. But we’re not there yet.”
“WellShe knew the fight wasn’t over yet, but for the first time, she felt ready to stand her ground—because no amount of money was worth losing the peace she’d dreamed of.
