**Thursday, 15th June**
The guests have left, but the bitterness lingers.
“Mum, how can you say that?” Emily slammed a dirty plate into the sink so hard it clattered against the edge. “Ungrateful? What exactly should I be grateful for, then? Enlighten me.”
“For everything I’ve sacrificed for you! For enduring your father all those years for the sake of you kids! For going without so you could study and dress properly!” Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen, red-faced with anger, twisting a tea towel in her hands.
“Mum, stop it! The guests just left, and you’re already on my case! What have I done wrong? Didn’t welcome your friends properly? Didn’t lay the table? Didn’t bake the cake?”
“That’s just it—you *didn’t*!” Margaret spun around and began furiously scrubbing cups. “Sat there like a stranger while Patricia went on about her grandchildren. Didn’t say a word when Linda asked about Oliver’s school. Not even a ‘thank you’ when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed after three hours at the table with Mum’s friends—their endless questions, comparisons, advice on how to live *correctly*. That perpetual dissatisfaction with everything and everyone.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to smile and nod every second.”
“Grown!” Her mother scoffed. “A grown woman doesn’t live with her mother, I’ll have you know. Not still hanging around at *forty*.”
“I’m thirty-five, not forty! And I’m not *hanging around*—I pay my share of the bills, buy groceries, clean, cook!”
“Cook!” Margaret turned sharply, fury in her eyes. “What do you cook? Pasta and sausages? Who made Sunday roast today? Who did the potatoes? Who cleaned the house before guests arrived?”
Emily sank into a chair, drained. These endless complaints, the jabs, the need to prove herself—more exhausting than any shift at work.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else do you want me to say?”
“I want a *thank you*!” Margaret slapped the table. “Just a simple ‘thank you, Mum, for letting me stay here, for not throwing me out when my marriage fell apart.’ ‘Thank you for helping with Oliver, taking him to the GP, picking him up from school.’ But no! You think it’s my *duty*!”
A lump rose in Emily’s throat. Yes, her mother helped with Oliver. Yes, she’d lived in Mum’s flat for three years since the divorce. But hadn’t she tried to make up for it? Worked two jobs to contribute?
“Mum, I *do* thank you—maybe not in words, but in actions. I don’t ask you for money. I help around the house.”
“Help!” Her mother sat across from her, still gripping the towel. “Patricia mentioned today that her daughter’s got a new man. A decent one, financially stable. Moved them into his place straight away. And you? Three years alone, work to home like a clock. No life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily shot back. “I can’t just order a man from Tesco! If I meet someone decent, I’ll marry him. If not, I’ll stay single.”
“Single!” Margaret stood and paced the kitchen. “Do you think I’ll live forever? I’m seventy-two. How many years do I have left? And then what? You’ll be alone with a child to raise.”
“Oliver’s not a baby. He’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The *worst* age! He needs a father, a man’s guidance. But what does he see? A mother working herself to the bone and a grandmother raising him.”
Emily pushed back from the table. This was going in circles—soon Mum would list every mistake, every failed job, every wrong turn.
“Mum, I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, run away!” Margaret called after her. “You always do when things get serious!”
Emily paused in the doorway. The words stung—because they held a kernel of truth.
“I’m not running. I’m just tired of these conversations. Nothing I do is ever enough for you.”
“Enough?” Margaret stepped closer. “Then tell me—why, at thirty-five, do you still live with your mother? Why no home of your own? Why is my grandson growing up without a father?”
“Because life *happened*!” Emily snapped. “Not everyone’s born with a silver spoon! I had to focus on Oliver, on work, not chasing blokes!”
“Chasing blokes!” Her mother gasped. “Is that what you call trying to have a relationship?”
“Mum, *enough*!” Emily turned and hurried to her room, her mother’s voice still buzzing indignantly behind her.
She closed the door and leaned against it. Silence. Oliver sat at his desk by the window, doing homework. He turned when she entered.
“Mum… were you and Gran arguing again?”
“Just talking, love.”
He gave her a sceptical look. At thirteen, he understood more than he let on.
“I heard shouting. Both of you.”
Emily stroked his hair—dark like hers, his father’s grey eyes. Too tall for his age, too perceptive.
“Grown-ups disagree sometimes. Doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“What was it about?”
She sat on the bed. How to explain what *she* barely understood—the guilt, the resentment, the suffocating expectations?
“Gran thinks I’m not a good enough daughter. I think I’m trying my best.”
Oliver frowned. “You *are* good. You work hard. Help me with homework. Cook my favourites. Don’t yell like some mums.”
Emily swallowed tears. “Thank you, sweetheart. Did you like Gran’s friends?”
He pulled a face. “They kept going on about their *perfect* grandkids. Then asked why you’re not married. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Aunty Pat said her daughter remarried well, Gran went red and started saying how great *you* are. They all looked… doubtful.”
Emily sighed. So it wasn’t just her behaviour. Mum had felt judged—ashamed of her single daughter.
“Ol… do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. When I need help lifting something. Or when lads brag about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re both mum and dad.”
Her chest tightened. Thirteen going on thirty.
“If I met someone… would you mind?”
“If he’s nice, no. Just… don’t let him hurt you. Or kick me out.”
“No one’s kicking you out,” she whispered. “You’re my world.”
He smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed, replaying the day.
The guests arrived at two. Margaret had worn her best dress, fresh from the hairdresser’s. The table—roast beef, roast potatoes, veg, homemade apple pie—had been set since morning.
Patricia, Linda, and Carol—work friends from decades ago. All retired, all living through their children’s achievements.
At first, chat was harmless: health, rising prices, politics. Then Patricia whipped out photos of grandkids. Linda bragged about her granddaughter getting into Durham, her grandson winning a swimming championship.
Carol’s son bought her a new iPhone—they video-called daily! He and his wife were getting a mortgage, moving into a new house.
Then eyes turned to Margaret. What could *she* say? That her divorced daughter lived with her? That her grandson had good grades but no father?
Margaret praised Emily’s work ethic, her responsibility. But her friends’ pity was palpable.
“Any luck with dating?” Linda asked sweetly.
“Not yet,” Margaret said tightly.
“Good men are rare these days,” Carol sighed. “Always drinking, jobless, or married.”
“Maybe she’s too picky?” Patricia suggested. “My Jessica was the same—too fussy. Then she realised perfection doesn’t exist.”
Emily’s cheeks burned. Discussed like a defective product. Judged by women who knew nothing of her struggles.
After the divorce, she *had* tried dating. Richard—a widower with two kids—seemed ideal. Understood single parenthood. But three months in, she realised he wanted a free nanny, not a partner.
Before that, Mark—younger, childless, good job. But Oliver was an inconvenience. “I can’t adjust to having a kid around,” he’d said before ghosting her.
And Paul, who borrowed £2,000 and vanished.
She’d stopped looking. Focused on work, Oliver, repairing things with Mum.
But tonight proved—Mum saw her choices as failure. A spinster at thirty-five,Emily wiped her eyes, pulled Oliver close, and whispered, “We’ll figure it out, love—together.”
