“Sorry, the seaside trip’s off,” James says, eyes glued to his phone. “Mum’s coming over.”
I stand in the bedroom, suitcase open, a brand‑new swimsuit with its tag still attached. It’s my first in seven years.
“How can you cancel?” I place the swimsuit carefully on the bed. “The tickets are bought, non‑refundable – two thousand eight hundred pounds, James.”
He rubs his nose and slumps onto the edge of the sofa, the same pose he takes whenever the conversation veers away from what he wants.
“What can I do? Mum already has a train ticket for the day after tomorrow. I can’t just tell her to turn back.”
We’ve been married for seven years, and in all that time I’ve never taken a holiday – not to the coast, not to a spa, not even a weekend away in the next town. The first year we spent three days on our honeymoon in Brighton before Edith, my mother‑in‑law, called to say her blood pressure was high. We cut the trip short. Her reading was 130 over 80 – normal for her age. I knew that because I’m a pharmacist and I see those numbers every day.
Since then no trips have happened. Every time we plan a break, Edith appears, the fourth time in seven years, like clockwork.
“James,” I sit beside him, trying to keep my voice steady, “we’ve been saving for this holiday for four months. I’ve taken extra twelve‑hour shifts. You’ve seen me come home exhausted.”
He glances up from his screen. “I see that,” he says, still not looking at me. “But Mum comes first.”
I adjust my glasses. My fingers slip; my hands are dry and cracked from endless antiseptic use – eight years in the pharmacy have left my skin like sandpaper.
“What’s more important?” I ask.
“More important than the sea, Ethel,” he finally says, meeting my eyes. “Mum’s seventy‑four. Don’t you get it?”
I understand. Edith lives in a modest three‑bed flat in York, sharing it with a neighbour who drops in daily. She does the shopping herself, carries the bags herself, makes twenty jars of winter preserves on her own. Every time she “visits” it starts with the same call to James: “Love, I’m missing you, I’ll be there for a week.”
That “week” stretches to two, then three. Once she stayed with us for a month until the neighbour called to say a pipe had burst in her flat.
“I won’t cancel,” I say. “You go meet Mum. I’ll fly out.”
James lifts his head, as if I’d suggested something scandalous.
“Where are you flying? Alone? Without me?”
“With Lucy.”
“No,” he snaps, standing. “No, Ethel. We’re a family. Either together or not at all.”
I surrender, as I have three times before. I tuck the swimsuit back into the suitcase, close it, and lift it onto the high shelf. The two thousand eight hundred pounds vanish, non‑refundable.
Two days later Edith stands in the hallway, a heavy checked bag and a sack of home‑grown cucumbers.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she says, eyes sweeping the corridor. “Those wallpapered walls could do with a change. James, aren’t you keeping an eye on the flat at all?”
Edith stays with us for three weeks. In the first two days she rearranges everything in the kitchen – pots in a different cupboard, spices on a new shelf, the cutting board under the sink “because it’s more hygienic”. I work twelve‑hour shifts and come home to a place where I can’t find a single pan.
“Edith,” I say on the third day, opening a cupboard in search of a frying pan, “I’m used to things being where they belong. It’s easier when everything’s in its place.”
She looks over my glasses, a heavy gaze from top to bottom, even though I’m a head taller than she is.
“You, Ethel, are used to chaos,” she says. “Who puts a pan next to the rice?”
“It’s convenient for me,” I reply.
“And it’s not for me, nor for James. Right, James?”
James sits at the table, phone in hand, shoulders hunched as he always does when his mother talks to him.
“Mum,” he says. “Alright then.”
That’s all I hear – not “Ethel’s right” or “Mum, that’s her kitchen”, just “alright then”.
On the fifth day Edith starts fussing over the curtains. I bought them last year – linen, mustard‑yellow, chosen to match the armchair upholstery and cushions – eight hundred pounds. I come home to find them folded on the chair, a plain white voile hanging in the windows, the kind Edith brought from a market.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“These are proper curtains,” she taps the table with a finger. “Not rags. Mustard is for a hospital, not a home.”
I stay silent for three seconds, then remove the voile, fold it, and set it on a stool. I pull out my own curtains and begin hanging them. My hands don’t shake this time.
“What are you doing?” Edith’s voice drops.
“Hanging my curtains,” I say without turning. “I like my curtains. This is my home. I choose the colour.”
Silence stretches for about five seconds. Then Edith gets up from the table and leaves the room. I hear her dial a number in the hallway. The voice is muffled but I catch the words: “James, your wife is being rude to me. I’m not used to this.”
James returns from work earlier than usual. The door slams shut, startling Lucy in her room.
“What did you do?” he asks from the doorway.
“I hung my curtains,” I say.
“Mum’s upset! She came all this way and you didn’t even thank her!”
I look at his broad shoulders, which at the moment are straight because his mother isn’t in the room but just beyond the wall. With her she hunches; with me he straightens.
“James,” I say, “I thanked her for the cucumbers, the jam, the pastries. But I’ll choose the curtains in my house.”
“This is OUR house!” he protests.
“Then why does your mum make the decisions?”
He says nothing, rubs his nose, turns and walks to his mother.
That evening Lucy comes into the kitchen, quiet, a textbook in her hands as if she’s just fetched a glass of water.
“Mum,” she says, “he calls her every time before each holiday. I’ve heard it.”
“What did you hear?”
“He says, ‘Mum, we’re leaving on this date,’ and she turns up. Every single time.”
I put the kettle on and listen to the water boil. It can’t be coincidence. Four times in a row is a pattern.
Lucy shifts from foot to foot. “Mum, are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. “Go do your homework.”
I’m not okay. I pull out my phone, open a notes app and tally the sums. First honeymoon, a package for three, one hundred twenty thousand pounds. Second, Turkey two years ago, one hundred ninety thousand. Third, Canterbury last spring, tickets and hotel for fifty thousand. Fourth, this two thousand eight hundred. Six hundred forty thousand pounds total. All gone.
James has, in that time, taken his mother to Bath twice on health‑resort trips, both on the family budget.
I close the notes, put the phone away and pour myself a cup of tea. My hands are steady. I haven’t reached a decision yet, but something has shifted inside me.
A month after Edith leaves, I invite my friend Clare over for dinner. We’ve worked together in the pharmacy for nine years.
James heads to a mate’s flat to watch football. Lucy sits in her room. Clare and I uncork wine, slice cheese, settle at the kitchen table – the first decent evening in ages.
“How are you?” Clare asks. “Any plans for the summer?”
“Nowhere,” I reply with a smile, already accustomed to the question.
“Again?”
“Again.” I hear the sigh in Clare’s voice – we all know the story.
A knock at the door. I open it to Edith, suitcase and a bag of cucumbers in hand.
“James said you’re home alone,” she says. “Thought I’d drop by. It’s been a while.”
A month has passed. “It’s been a while,” I repeat.
She steps in, sees Clare, and sits at the table. I pour her tea – she never drinks wine and never approves of it.
Ten minutes pass, conversation flows, then Clare asks, “Edith, do you travel much?”
Edith sits upright. “Oh, I do! James took me to Bath twice – beautiful baths, massages, the hills. Lovely!”
She turns to me. “And you, Ethel, where have you been lately? I haven’t seen a single photo of you anywhere.”
I fix my glasses. “Nowhere.”
“See?” Edith says to Clare, as if stating the obvious. “Young, healthy, never goes anywhere. James asks her, she refuses. It’s her fault. I’ve toured the whole of Yorkshire in my day.”
Clare watches me, lips pressed together.
“Edith,” Clare says, “Ethel isn’t staying away because she doesn’t want to.”
“Why not then?”
Clare stays silent, looking at me as if asking permission.
I answer myself.
“Because every time we buy tickets, you turn up,” I say, voice level, not a scream. “Four times in seven years. Honeymoon – you called, we turned back. Turkey – you arrived a day before departure. Canterbury – same thing. This year – the sea. Two thousand eight hundred pounds, non‑refundable. Six hundred forty thousand total. I’ve counted them.”
Edith stops tapping the table. Her hand freezes halfway to her cup.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“I’m talking numbers,” I say. “Just facts. Dates, if you need them.”
Silence.
Clare gets up, says she has to go. I see Edith already dialing James.
Twenty minutes later James bursts into the flat, shoes still on.
“Why are you making mum look bad in front of strangers?” he says, standing in the hallway.
“I didn’t. I just named the sums.”
“What sums? What are you on about?”
“The six hundred forty thousand pounds we lost on cancelled trips over our marriage.”
James looks at his mother. Edith stands in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.
“James,” she says, “it’s either me or her.”
“Mum,” James rubs his nose.
“She needs to apologise,” Edith cuts in.
James turns to me. “Ethel, apologise to your mother.”
I take off my glasses, wipe them on the inside of my sweater. Without them everything blurs – James, his mother, the hallway with the shoes.
“No,” I say. “I won’t.”
“Then I’m going to stay with Mum until you come to your senses,” he replies. “Until you’re normal again.”
“Fine,” I answer.
He waits for a different reply – I can see his chin twitch. I stay silent, he stays silent, then he grabs his coat and heads out. Edith follows, leaving the bag of cucumbers in the hallway.
I sit on a stool in the empty kitchen. My legs ache after a twelve‑hour shift, then this. Inside, however, it’s clear as a sky after a storm.
He returns three days later. No apology, no conversation, just hangs his coat and sits down to dinner. Edith has gone back to York.
A week later James starts speaking to me in clipped phrases: “Dinner ready?”, “Where’s the shirt?”, “Pick up Lucy.” I realise he’s punishing me with silence for not apologising.
Another week passes and I start setting aside money in a separate account he doesn’t know about.
A year flies by. Lucy turns sixteen and I arrange her first passport. James signs the consent form without asking why; he’s only interested when his mother calls.
In May I buy tickets for two – me and Lucy – to Antalya, a three‑star hotel for nine nights. I pay from my secret account, the one James never sees. Forty‑seven pounds a month from my salary have accumulated. I book refundable tickets this time, learning from the past.
I tell James, “Let’s all go together in June. I’ve found a good deal.”
He looks at me as if I’ve spoken another language, then nods. “Alright. Let’s give it a try.”
Two weeks pass as I pack, buying Lucy new sandals and a sun hat, and a sunscreen for myself, discounted in our pharmacy for staff.
Four days before departure James arrives home later than usual, sits at the table, phone face‑down. I recognise that gesture: phone face‑down means he’s on the phone with his mum or she’s calling him.
“Ethel,” he begins.
My fingers clench, nails digging into my palms, not out of anger but anticipation. I know what he’ll say.
“Mum’s coming. We have to meet her.”
“When?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“The day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow – two days before the flight.
“James,” I say, “did you call her?”
“What?”
“You called her and told her we’re leaving?”
He averts his eyes, rubs his nose, and I realise he did. He’s told her the date, the route, and Edith immediately booked a train ticket, as always.
“She misses you,” James says. “She’s seventy‑five this year.”
“Seventy‑four,” I correct. “She’ll be seventy‑five in November.”
He waves a hand. “What difference does it make? She’s alone. We’ll be the only ones she has. The sea isn’t going anywhere.”
I remember the whole seven years. Every “the sea isn’t going anywhere”. Every swimsuit with its tag. Every suitcase I open and close. Six hundred forty thousand pounds. Four ruined trips. Twelve‑hour shifts that have left my hands cracked.
“Fine,” I say.
James exhales, relaxes, assuming I’ve given in.
“Good girl,” he says. “I’ll call Mum and ask her to bring fresh linens – we don’t have many spare.”
I nod, leave the kitchen and go to Lucy’s room.
“Pack up,” I tell her. “We’re flying the day after tomorrow.”
Lucy looks up from her phone. “Mum, didn’t he say—”
“I know what he said. Pack the suitcase. Swimsuit, books, charger. I have the passports.”
Lucy watches me for a few seconds, then smiles for the first time in a month and grabs her backpack.
I return to the kitchen. James sits at the table, phone in hand, already negotiating with Edith about which duvet covers to bring.
“James,” I say, “I’m not cancelling the tickets.”
He lifts his head. “What do you mean?”
“In the literal sense. I’m flying with Lucy. You stay and meet Mum.”
The phone goes silent. Edith, on the other end, must have gone quiet too.
“You serious?” he asks.
“It’s been seven years, James. Seven years without a break. Four times we’ve lost money. I work six days a week, twelve‑hour shifts, my hands are cracking from the antiseptic. I’m forty‑eight. I want to see the sea.”
“And Mum? What do I tell her?”
“Tell her your wife is off on a holiday. For the first time in seven years.”
He stands, the chair creaking on the floor. “Ethel, if you go, that’s—” he stumbles. “That’s disrespect to my mum. To me.”
“And four cancelled holidays is respect to me?” he asks, his voice tightening. He says nothing, gripping the phone. Edith’s voice comes through the speaker: “James! What’s happening? What is she saying?”
I turn and leave the kitchen.
I spend the night awake in Lucy’s room, checking documents. Two passports – mine and Lucy’s – hotel booking, insurance, transfer. Everything paid.
In the morning I write a short note on a scrap of notebook paper:
“James, Lucy and I are off. Back in ten days. Meet Mum. We need this break. Ethel”
I slip the note onto the kitchen table beside his mug, grab the two suitcases, rouse Lucy, and hail a cab.
At the doorway I look back. The flat is silent. James sleeps.
“Let’s go,” I tell Lucy.
In the cab Lucy is quiet for five minutes, then asks, “Mum, will he be angry?”
“He will,” I answer.
“And what then?”
I watch the city glide by – grey, familiar. In four hours I’ll be at the sea, the first time in seven years.
“Nothing,” I say.
At the airport I turn my phone off. I turn it back on once we’re airborne, seeing twelve missed calls from James and three messages from Edith: “Ethel, what are you doing?”, “Bring the child back!”, “I won’t let this go!”.
I tuck the phone away. Lucy reads a book beside me. Outside, clouds drift past the window.
The sea turns out warm.
Three weeks later Lucy and I return, tanned, with jars of cucumbers Edith left in the fridge, and a note of mine still on the table – untouched. James sits in the living room, looks at us, says nothing, then drifts to the bedroom. He sleeps on the sofa in the hall, talks to me through Lucy: “Tell MumAnd as the final tide pulled back, I finally realized that the only calm I could ever claim belonged to myself.
