The guests had departed, but the sting remained.
“Mum, how can you say such things?” Emily flung the dirty plate into the sink, where it clattered against the edge. “Ungrateful? What exactly am I supposed to be grateful for?”
“For everything I’ve given up for you! For putting up with your father all those years for the sake of you children! For denying myself so you could have an education, decent clothes—” Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen, her face flushed with indignation, a dishcloth clenched in her hands.
“Mum, stop! The guests have just left, and you’re already at me! What did I do wrong? Didn’t welcome your friends properly? Didn’t set the table? Didn’t bake the cake?”
“Exactly! You didn’t!” Margaret whirled around and began scrubbing a teacup furiously. “Sat there like a stranger while Valerie went on about her grandchildren. Silent when Louise asked about Jack. Not even a ‘thank you’ when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed after three hours at the table with her mother’s friends—endless questions, comparisons, unsolicited advice on “the right way” to live. The same old dissatisfaction with everything and everyone.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to smile and nod every second.”
“Grown!” Margaret scoffed. “Grown women don’t live with their mothers, I’ll have you know. Not at your age.”
“I’m thirty-five, not forty! And I don’t live off you! I pay my share of the bills, buy groceries, clean, cook—”
“Cook!” Margaret turned, anger flashing in her eyes. “What do you cook? Pasta and sausages? Who made the roast today? The Yorkshire puddings? Who scrubbed the house before guests arrived?”
Emily sank onto a chair, drained. These endless grievances, the need to prove herself, wore her out more than any job.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else did you want to hear?”
“I wanted to hear ‘thank you’!” Margaret slapped the table with her palm. “‘Thank you, Mum, for letting us stay after David left. For helping with Jack, taking him to the doctor, picking him up from school.’ Instead, you act as if it’s my duty!”
Emily swallowed hard. Yes, her mother helped with Jack. Yes, she’d lived in her mother’s house since the divorce, three years now. But didn’t she try to repay her? Work two jobs just to contribute?
“Mum, I thank you every day. Maybe not in words, but in actions. I don’t ask you for money, I do my part—”
“Your part!” Margaret sat across from her, still gripping the dishcloth. “Do you know what Valerie said today? That her daughter Charlotte’s got a new man—successful, good provider. He’s already asked her and the kids to move in with him. And you? Three years alone, back and forth to work like a pendulum. No life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily shot back. “I can’t order a man from a shop! If I meet someone decent, fine. If not, I’ll manage on my own.”
“On your own!” Margaret stood, pacing the kitchen. “And what about me? I’m seventy-two. How much longer do I have? You’ll be left alone, with a child to raise.”
“Jack’s not a baby. He’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The hardest age! He needs a father, a man’s guidance. Instead, he sees his mother working dawn till dusk and his grandmother raising him.”
Emily pushed back from the table. The conversation was veering into familiar territory—her mother listing every mistake, every wrong turn, every job she should’ve taken.
“Mum, I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, run away!” Margaret called after her. “As usual, when things get serious! Can’t face the truth!”
Emily stopped in the doorway. That stung—because it was partly true.
“I’m not running. I’m just tired of this. Nothing I do is ever enough for you.”
“Enough?” Margaret stepped closer. “Then tell me, what is enough? Why, at thirty-five, are you still with your mother? No home of your own, no family? Why is my grandson growing up without a father?”
“Because life happened!” Emily snapped. “Not all of us are born with silver spoons! I had to raise a child, work—not chase after men!”
“Chase after men!” Margaret gasped. “Is that what you call trying to build a life?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily turned and hurried to her room. Behind her, her mother’s indignant voice faded into indistinct muttering.
She shut the door and leaned against it. The room was quiet. Jack sat at the 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 skeptical look. At thirteen, he understood more than he let on.
“I heard shouting. You too.”
Emily stroked his hair—dark like hers, but with his father’s grey eyes. Tall for his age, too thin, too observant. Too grown-up for thirteen.
“Grown-ups don’t always agree. But we still love each other.”
“What were you arguing about?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. How to explain what she barely understood herself—this weight of guilt and resentment?
“Gran thinks I’m not a good enough daughter. I think I’m doing my best.”
“You’re a good mum,” Jack said solemnly. “You work hard. Help me with school. Don’t yell like some mums do.”
“Thanks, love.” She nearly wept. “Did you like Gran’s friends today?”
He grimaced.
“They kept going on about their perfect grandkids. Then started asking why you’re not married. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Auntie Val said her daughter remarried well, Gran went red and started saying how good you are. They all looked… doubtful.”
Emily sighed. So it wasn’t just about her behaviour at the table. Her mother had felt ashamed—embarrassed by a grown daughter who hadn’t “sorted her life out.”
“Jack… do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. When I need help carrying something heavy, or when the lads brag about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re like both parents to me.”
Her heart ached. Thirteen, yet so wise. So alone.
“Would you mind if I met someone?”
“Not if he’s nice. Just don’t let him hurt you. Or kick me out.”
“No one’s kicking you out,” she said firmly. “You’re my world.”
Jack smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed on the bed, replaying the day.
The guests had arrived at two. Margaret greeted them in her best dress, hair freshly set for the occasion. The table had been laid since morning—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, trifle. Valerie, Louise, and Barbara—old work friends, all retired, all living through their children and grandchildren.
At first, the talk was harmless: health, rising prices, the news. Then Valerie brought out photos of her grandchildren. Louise countered with her granddaughter’s scholarship and her grandson’s swimming trophies. Barbara boasted about her son’s new flat and how they video-called daily.
Then all eyes turned to Margaret. What could she say? That her daughter was divorced, living at home? That her grandson was bright but fatherless? That her joys were report cards and rare moments when Jack needed her?
Margaret spoke of Emily’s job, her responsibility, her help around the house. But her friends’ voices dripped with pity.
“And her love life?” Louise asked kindly.
“Complicated,” Margaret said tightly.
“Good men are scarce these days,” Barbara sighed. “Either drinkers, jobless, or already taken.”
“Maybe she’s too picky?” Valerie suggested. “My Charlotte was the same—until she realised no one’s perfect. Just needs a decent man who’ll love the kids.”
Emily had sat there, cheeks burning. Discussed like goods at market. Judged by women who knew nothing of what she’d endured.
After the divorce, she’d tried dating. Hoped, trusted, been wrong. Men who couldn’t accept another man’s child, men who wanted a nanny, not a wife. The last one, Robert—charming, kind—had vanished after borrowing a hefty sum.
She’d given up, focusing on work, Jack, her strained ties with her mother.
Tonight proved Margaret didn’t understand—to her, an unmarried daughter at thirty-five was a failure, a shame.
Emily moved to the window. Rain drizzled outside, puddles gleaming on the pavement. Autumn coming, then winter. Another year in her mother’s house, another year of disapproval.
Maybe her motherThe next morning, as sunlight filtered through the curtains, Emily found Margaret quietly setting the kettle to boil—both of them knowing their words had cut deep, but neither willing to let the love between them fracture completely.
