**The Freeloader**
Misha finally fell asleep at three in the morning. I sat on the edge of the bed, frozen in an awkward positionmy arm numb, my shoulder achingbut I didnt dare move. The poor lad was teething, his gums red and swollen, fists constantly stuffed into his mouth as he wailed so hard it shattered my heart.
It felt like he hadnt slept in an eternity. The moment I tried to shift him into his crib, his eyes snapped open, as if sensing my escape. Just seven months old, and already hed rewritten my entire life. Love, pain, fear, joyall tangled into a knot I couldnt unravel.
When his breathing steadied, I crept out quietly. Across the courtyard, a light flickered in one of the identical flats of our concrete block. Who else was awake at this hour? Another exhausted mother? An insomniac pensioner? A couple tangled up in each other? Once, Id dreamed of a home of our ownme and Jeremy, gazing out at our own little patch of London. But those dreams had dissolved like smoke.
Three years behind the till at Tesco, and all my savings had vanished. First, the deposit on a mortgage we never secured. Then, the money spent renovating his mums flat. *”Itll be cosier,”* hed said. But the only ones who seemed comfortable were him and Margarethis mother.
From the day Id stepped through that door with my suitcase and foolish hopes, Id never once felt at home.
*”Things will get better,”* Jeremy promised a year and a half ago. *”Well register the marriage this summer,”* hed vowed before I got pregnant. *”Just a little longer,”* he whispered after Misha was born. I nodded. Believed him. Waited. But somehow, a ring and a certificate still seemed like too much to ask.
Margaret jingled her keys every morning as she left for her accounting job. I secretly called her *”the terrier”*small, snappy, nose permanently in the air. She spoke to me only when necessary, as if I were temporary help rather than the mother of her grandchild. If I cooked, shed sniff: *”You dont know how to handle decent ingredients.”* If I did laundry: *”Those are expensive clothes.”* Always with that venomous little smile.
*”Sophie, the floors could use a wash,”* shed say on my only day off. *”Sophie, I bought cottage cheese for Misha,”* as if Id ever asked her to.
Her bedroom was always locked. Shed rifle through our things when we werent there. Once, I caught her elbow-deep in my wardrobe. *”Looking for a towel,”* shed said without a hint of shame.
The kitchen had its own rigid orderher plates separate, ours stacked apart. Her frying pan, her pots, her whisk. Nothing shared. If Jeremy worked late, I ate in our room rather than sit across from her.
Somehow, wed enduredday after day, month after month. Before Misha, I could still escapeto work, to friends, just for a walk. Now? A baby in my arms, thirty quid in my purse, and child benefits barely covering essentials.
I slipped into the hallway, thirsty and dizzy from exhaustionanother sleepless night. Last night, Misha had woken at half one and only settled at five. By ten, I was up again, moving like a zombie, eyes gritty with fatigue.
The kitchen light was on. Margaret was still awake. I just wanted water, but before I could take a step
*”Still not asleep?”* She turned, eyes sharp. *”Too busy scrolling on your phone? Saw the light under your door.”*
*”Mishas teething,”* I muttered.
She scoffeda sound that said everything. *I dont believe you. Youre lazy. In my day, women worked and raised children without complaint.*
*”Could you keep it down?”* I flinched as she clattered plates. *”He just fell asleep.”*
Something flickered in her eyes. She stiffened, then
*”Keep it down?”* She slammed a mug onto the table. *”Im supposed to tiptoe in my own home?”*
I leaned against the doorframe. Seven months without proper sleep. Seven months in this shoebox flat, every step like walking on broken glass.
*”I just asked you not to bang the dishes.”*
*”Maybe you just dont know how to put a baby to sleep.”* She crossed her arms. *”I raised two. Never had issues with teeth. They slept like angels.”*
I clenched my jaw. My son was sleeping in the next room, but in this cramped kitchen, a storm was brewing. No matter what I said, Id lose. Stay silentI was a bad mother. Speak upI was causing trouble.
*”I just wanted water.”* I stepped toward the sink.
*”Of course.”* She didnt budge. *”Its always something with you. Too tired to help, too busy on your phone. But work? Oh no, not for you.”*
I froze. *Work?* With a seven-month-old who barely slept?
*”Ill go back when Mishas eighteen months. Like we agreed.”*
*”Agreed.”* She drawled the word. *”My sons made of iron, is he? Carrying this family alone while you spend his money. Those curtainshow much? That pramforeign brand, wasnt it?”*
I stared. The curtains were twenty quid. The pram, second-hand for two hundred.
*”Speaking of money,”* Margarets eyes gleamed, *”have you ever paid a bill? Rent? Electric? Youre a freeloader. No one asked you to come. Jeremy was fine before you”*
Something in me snapped. I stood there, numb. I wanted to scream: *Who paid for your bedroom renovation? Who bought your fridge? Where did my savings go?*
But I stayed quiet. Swallowed it. For Misha. For Jeremy. For the sake of *”keeping the peace.”*
*”You think I dont see how you eye my things?”* Her voice trembled. *”Planning to take my son and everything I own?”*
I went still. What *things*? The chipped dinner set she treated like crown jewels? The ancient pots no one was allowed to touch? Jeremy and I had nothingjust debt and Mishas cot.
I couldnt hold back anymore.
*”I dont want your things.”* My voice was steady, though my hands shook. *”Im not here for you. Or this.”*
*”Then what *are* you here for?”* She stepped closer, face twisted. *”My son, who you trapped? This flat youll never get? The money?”*
It felt like a slap. My chest tightened. Words tumbled out before I could stop them.
*”For a decent life for my child! The one your son, by the way, isnt in a rush to support! The one *you* said was sucking him dry in *my* room, eating food bought with child benefits! And if you must knowall my savings went into your renovations and a mortgage we never got!”*
My own voice sounded foreign. I hadnt raised my voice in years. Maybe ever.
*”Whats going on?”*
Jeremy stood in the doorwaydazed, pillow creases on his cheek. He looked between us, lost. And all I saw was a boy, still trapped in a thirty-two-year-olds body.
Margaret lunged toward him.
*”Jeremy, your Sophies being vile to me! Shouting! And all I did was wash a few dishes”*
His gaze flicked to me. I knew that look. How many times had I been the one at fault, no matter the truth? That pause before hed say
*”What now?”* he gritted out. *”Mum cant even wash up in her own home? I come back from work, and its always drama with you.”*
A cry from the room. Misha. Of course the noise woke him. I moved to leave, but Jeremy grabbed my arm.
*”Stop. Dont walk away when Im talking to you.”*
Something inside me broke. His grip on my arm. My sons wails. Nothing else mattered.
*”Let go.”* My voice was calm. *”Mishas crying.”*
*”Let him cry.”* He stepped closer, finger jabbing my chest. *”First, explain how you speak to my mother. Who do you think you are?”*
I yanked free. He backed me against the wall.
*”What. Did. You. Say. To. Her?”*
I stared at his facefamiliar, yet a strangers, twisted with anger. My pulse pounded. Misha screamedfrantic, terrified. Calling for
