Floors Wont Clean Themselves
Sophie, while Matthew is at work, its really down to you to keep an eye on the house, remarked Mrs. Margaret Wright. The floors wont clean themselves, you know. And whos going to cook supper? What are you sitting there for, waiting for something magical to happen?
I passed my hand over my enormous belly. Seven months. Twins. Each morning began with the challenge of just sitting up in bed. My back ached so much, I could have happily just lain there and not moved until the due date.
Mrs. Wright, you can see how big I am. I can barely get around the flat, I have to hold onto the walls. And youre worrying about supper.
My mother-in-law waved a hand at me as if Id just complained about a bit of a sniffle.
Oh, Sophie, youre pregnant, not dying. When I carried Matthew, I cooked, did the wash, and even tended the allotment right up until the very day he arrived. But you? Youre laid out there all day like a lady of leisure. Stop pretending, Sophie. You just want everyone running around, feeling sorry for you.
She left, the dirty mug on the table, and a sour heaviness in my chest that I just couldnt swallow.
Matthew came home near nine that night, exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. I waited until hed finished eating, then sat down next to him.
Matthew, we need to talk about your mum. Shes round here every day telling me off. Im barely walking, but she expects me to scrub the floors and make stews. Please, can you say something?
Matthew pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. But I knew he didnt want to get involved.
Alright, Soph. Ill talk to her. I promise.
Days went by, but nothing changed. Mrs. Wright still popped in every other day, running her finger along the shelves for dust, sighing dramatically over an unwashed plate in the sink.
Two months later, the twins arrived. Two sturdy, healthy boys James and Harry. When the midwife laid them both on my chest, nothing else mattered. I lay there, clutching these tiny, wailing little people, crying tears of enormous, overwhelming joy. Matthew rushed to the ward, took James from the nurse with hands so careful, as if he were holding fine china, his lips trembling.
Soph, just look at our boys…
The week in the maternity ward floated by in a warm bubble where only the four of us existed. Then we returned home. Matthew carried one child, I held the other. We pushed open the door to the nursery the one wed painted together mint green, where wed assembled cots, hung up mobiles, stacked tiny sleepsuits on the shelves and I froze on the threshold.
There it was a purple dressing gown with embroidered initials draped across one cot. Next to the changing table, an open suitcase. The other cot pushed aside. In its place, a folding armchair, and in it, Mrs. Wright, flicking through a magazine, dressed for comfort.
Oh, youre back she looked up with an utterly unbothered expression. Ive made myself comfortable here, so I can help you with the boys.
I just stood in the doorway, hugging James, my mind struggling to make sense of what I was seeing. Suitcase. Gown. Someone elses things on shelves where the nappies had been only a week ago. My mother-in-law had settled herself in, as if she had every right in the world.
I turned slowly to Matthew, who loitered in the hallway, Harry in his arms, avoiding my gaze.
Matthew, what is this?
Soph, Mum said shed help for a while, he stared at the coat rack, not me. Its both of them. Youll be on your own all day. I just thoughtitd be too much.
I shifted James into a more comfortable position and shook my head.
Ill manage. We talked about this, Matthew. I can do it.
But Mrs. Wright was already behind me, having noiselessly risen and appeared in the corridor.
Dont be daft, love. Youve got two newborns and youre barely back on your feet. Go get some rest, lie down. Ill feed and settle the boys for you. Everything will be fine.
I wanted to object, but the exhaustion was so total, there wasnt even the strength to argue. Birth, the car ride home with two infants I nodded, handed James over, and went to the bedroom, insisting to myself it was all temporary, that a few days help couldnt hurt.
The first three days really were alright. Margaret got up at night to the boys, let me sleep, made breakfast, and wordlessly kept the washing machine on. For a moment I started to think Id misjudged her that grandmotherly instinct might work wonders, and it could all settle down. But then Matthew went back to work, and the whole flat changed in a single day.
Suddenly, Mrs. Wright stopped helping and started ruling. When I tried to feed Harry, shed stand over me, tisking Youre not holding him right, support his head, youre squeezing him, let the boy breathe. Id swaddle James, and shed re-do it immediately Thats all skew-whiff, hell end up crooked! If I sat on the sofa to catch my breath after a feed, shed shout from the kitchen, Sophie, the dishes wont do themselves, stop idling about.
From morning till night, it never let up. I couldnt finish with one task before getting told off for another. She let me near the twins less and less, snatching them from my arms with, Hand him here, youre doing everything wrong. Before long, I caught myself nervous to touch my own sons when she was in the room.
A week of this left me shaking by bedtime, my knees unsteady, my thoughts muddled from lack of sleep and the constant stress. One night, after Mrs. Wright finally nodded off in the nursery chair, I shut the bedroom door and sat on the bed beside Matthew.
Matthew, I cant do this anymore, I whispered, desperate that she shouldnt hear me through the wall, my voice boiling with pent-up anger. Your mother isnt helping shes running me into the ground. I cant feed my own babies without her interfering, cant sit down for five minutes before she orders me to clean the floors. I feel like a maid in my own home who cant do anything right.
Matthew just lay there, staring at the ceiling, silent.
Either she goes, I swallowed and finally forced out what Id been thinking for the last three days or Im packing up the boys and leaving.
He sat up, staring at me as if Id suggested something outlandish.
Come on, Soph, just give it a bit longer. Mum means well, shes just old-fashioned. Maybe try to talk to her? She only wants the best for the boys.
I pressed my hands to my face and squeezed my eyelids shut. I could already feel the tears burning, and I knew if I started crying now I wouldnt stop before morning. All of it had piled up for months since the pregnancy, the endless stop pretending and I managed twice as much when I was your age and now it was all bursting out at once.
Matthew, I cant even feed my children properly for a week I pulled my hands away, tears slipping down my cheeks I pick up Harry and she instantly takes him off me. I swaddle James and she undoes it. Im afraid to go near them in my own home. I carried them for nine months, Matthew, but she treats me like the hired help on probation!
At that moment, the bedroom door creaked open. There stood Mrs. Wright in her purple dressing gown, arms crossed, lips pursed, eyes hard.
I can hear you, you know. The walls arent that thick, she shot Sophie a look and shook her head. You should be ashamed, Sophie. Ive left my own home, come here to help with the boys, sleeping in a chair at sixty-two, and youre throwing a tantrum and turning my own son against me. You really are an ungrateful young woman.
And that was it something snapped. Matthew glanced at his mother, then at me tear-streaked, lip trembling, perched on the bed in a crumpled t-shirt with a milk stain on the shoulder and something in his face finally shifted. He saw what Id tried to tell him all along.
Mum, he said, sitting upright, pack your things. Ill take you home in the morning.
Mrs. Wright just stood there, dumbfounded, as if hed spoken a foreign language.
Matt, are you serious? Youre casting out your own mother for for her?
I mean it. This is our house, our children. Soph is my wife. Well manage. If we need your help, well ask. But youre not living here.
Mrs. Wright made a scene until midnight, noisily packing, slamming cupboards, coming out for cups of tea twice, moaning about ungrateful children and the daughter-in-law who tore the family apart. I sat in the bedroom feeding James, tears falling now not from anger, but slow, heavy relief.
In the morning, Matthew put her suitcase in the car, drove her home, and was back within two hours. Quietly, he went into the nursery, picked up a grumbling Harry, and cradled him on his shoulder.
Well be alright, Soph, he said, gently rocking his son. Well do it together.
And we did. Within days, I found my pace, without someone breathing down my neck and checking everything I did. I fed the boys when they needed, swaddled them how I liked, and the flat stopped feeling like borrowed space. Matthew got up at night when it was his turn, never grumbling, and on the weekends hed take the twins out for long walks, giving me two precious hours of peace. It didnt all come good overnight, but gradually, each day I woke up and went to my boys without fear the world in our little home became ours again.
Looking back, I learned something simple but vital: sometimes the hardest thing is asking for the space to be yourself. But its only when you do that your home and your family can finally belong to you.
