The guests had left, but the bitterness lingered.
“Mum, what on earth are you saying?” Emily flung the dirty plate into the sink so hard it clattered against the edge. “Ungrateful? What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For everything I’ve sacrificed for you! For putting up with your father all those years for the sake of the kids! For denying myself just so you could study and dress decently!” Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen, her face flushed with indignation, twisting a tea towel in her hands.
“Mum, stop! The guests just left, and you’re already on my case! What did I do wrong? Didn’t welcome your friends properly? Didn’t set the table? Didn’t bake the cake?”
“You didn’t do any of it! That’s just it—you did nothing!” Margaret spun around and started scrubbing the teacups furiously. “Sat there like a stranger while Linda went on about her grandchildren. Stayed quiet when Susan asked how Jack was getting on. Didn’t even say ‘thank you’ when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head throbbed after three hours at the table with her mum’s friends—the endless questions, the comparisons, the unsolicited advice on how to live properly. That constant dissatisfaction with everything and everyone.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. I’m a grown woman. I don’t have to smile and nod every minute.”
“Grown woman!” her mother scoffed. “A grown woman lives on her own, by the way. Not leeching off her mother at forty.”
“I’m thirty-five, not forty! And I’m not leeching! I pay 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 pudding? Who cleaned the house top to bottom before they arrived?”
Emily sank onto a chair, drained. The endless accusations, the guilt, the need to justify herself exhausted her more than any job.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else do you want to hear?”
“I wanted to hear ‘thank you’!” Margaret slapped the kitchen table. “Just a simple ‘thanks, Mum, for letting me stay here, for not kicking me out when my marriage fell apart.’ ‘Thanks for helping with Jack, taking him to the doctor, picking him up from school.’ But no! You think I owe it to you!”
A lump rose in Emily’s throat. Yes, her mother helped with Jack. Yes, she’d lived in her mum’s house for three years since the divorce. But didn’t she try to repay her? Didn’t she 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 pull my weight.”
“Pull your weight!” Her mother sat opposite her, still clutching the towel. “Do you know what Linda said today? That her Charlotte met a new man—a good one, with money. He even asked her and the kids to move in straight away. And you? Three years alone, just work and home like a pendulum. No life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily snapped. “I can’t just order a man from a shop! If I meet someone decent, fine. If not, I’ll manage alone.”
“Alone!” Margaret stood and paced. “Am I immortal? I’m seventy-two. How much longer do I have? And then you’ll be truly alone with a child to raise.”
“Jack’s not a baby—he’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The hardest age! He needs a father, a male influence. What does he see? A mother who works from dawn to dusk and a grandmother who raises him.”
Emily pushed back from the table. The conversation was going in circles. Soon her mother would list every mistake, every shortcoming, every wrong turn.
“Mum, I’m going to bed. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, go on!” Margaret called after her. “Same as always—when things get serious, you run and hide!”
Emily paused in the doorway. Something in those words stung. Maybe because there was truth in them.
“I’m not running. But I’m tired of these talks. Nothing I do is ever enough.”
“Enough?” Margaret stepped closer. “What would be enough? Explain it to me. Why, at thirty-five, are you still with your mother? Why haven’t you got your own home, your own family? Why is my grandson growing up without a father?”
“Because life happened! Not everyone’s born with a silver spoon! I had to raise a child, work—not chase after men!”
“Chase after men!” Margaret gasped. “Is that what you call trying to have a life?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily turned and hurried to her room. Behind her, her mother’s furious voice echoed, though the words blurred.
She shut the door and leaned against it. The room was quiet. Jack sat at the desk by the window, doing homework. Hearing her, he turned.
“Mum, were you and Gran arguing again?”
“Not arguing, love. Just talking.”
Jack gave her a sceptical look. At thirteen, he understood adults better than they thought.
“I heard shouting. You too.”
Emily stroked his hair. Dark, like hers. Grey eyes—just like his dad. Thin, tall for his age. Clever. Too grown-up for thirteen.
“Adults don’t always agree. But it doesn’t mean we don’t love each other.”
“What were you fighting about?”
She sat on the edge of the bed. How to explain what she barely understood herself—the guilt, the resentment, the constant feeling of falling short?
“Gran thinks I’m not a very good daughter. I think I’m doing my best.”
“I think you’re great,” Jack said seriously. “You work hard. You help with my homework. You cook nice meals. You don’t shout like some mums do.”
“Thanks, love.” She blinked back tears. “Did you like Gran’s friends today?”
He grimaced.
“They kept going on about their perfect grandkids. Then they started asking why you don’t have a husband. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Auntie Linda said her daughter married well, Gran went red and started saying how great you are. But they all looked… doubtful.”
Emily sighed. So it wasn’t just her behaviour at the table. Her mother had felt embarrassed in front of her friends. Ashamed of a grown daughter who hadn’t settled down.
“Jack… do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. Like when I need help carrying something heavy, or when the lads brag about fishing trips with their dads. But I know he’s not coming back. And you’re both mum and dad to me.”
Her chest tightened. Thirteen years old, yet so wise. So alone.
“If I met someone… would you mind?”
“Not if he’s nice. Just so long as he doesn’t hurt you or make me leave.”
“No one’s making you leave,” she said firmly. “You’re the most important thing in my life.”
Jack smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed on the bed, replaying the day.
The guests had arrived at two. Her mother had greeted them in her best dress, hair freshly done. The table had been laid since morning—Margaret had prepared like it was Christmas. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, salads, homemade apple pie.
Linda, Susan, and Barbara—work friends from decades ago, all retired now, all living through their children and grandchildren.
At first, the conversation had been civil. Health, rising prices, politics. Then Linda pulled out photos of her grandkids. Susan quickly matched her—her granddaughter got into university, her grandson won a swimming competition.
Barbara boasted about her son buying her a new smartphone so they could video call. And how he and his wife were getting a mortgage for a bigger house.
Then all eyes turned to Margaret. What could she say? That her daughter was divorced and lived at home? That her grandson did well in school but had no father? That her only joys were Jack’s good report cards?
Margaret talked about how hard Emily worked, how responsible she was. But pity laced her friends’ voices.
“And what about her love life?” Susan had asked sympathetically.
“Complicated,” Margaret replied tightly.
“Good men are hard to find these days,” Barbara sighed.
“Maybe she’s too picky?” Linda suggested.
Emily had sat there, cheeks burning. Discussed like goods at a market. Judged by people who knew nothing of what she’d been through.
After the divorce, she had tried. Dated, hoped. But it never worked. Either they couldn’t accept Jack, or they weren’t who they claimed to be.
A year ago, there was Daniel—a widower with two kids. Seemed perfect. But after three months, it was clear he wanted a free nanny, not a wife.
Before that, Mark—younger, good job, no kids. But JackEmily looked at Jack, his face bathed in the warm glow of the bedside lamp, and realised that no matter how heavy the weight of their past, their love was enough to carry them forward.
