A blinding shaft of sunlight pierced through the curtains, illuminating the strained faces gathered around the dining table, yet it failed to thaw the icy silence clinging to the air in the spacious living room.
—Emma and I want to stay here for a couple of years,— James spoke firmly, masking the tremor in his voice. —It’ll help us save for our own flat.
Beside him, Emma fidgeted with the edge of the tablecloth. Across from them, Eleanor, James’s mother, sat frozen with a knife in hand, as though she intended to sever not bread but the very idea itself. His father, William, sipped his tea pensively, avoiding eye contact.
—Stay here?— Eleanor lowered the knife slowly. —With… this wife of yours?
—Yes, Mum. With my wife,— James stressed the word. —We’re tired of renting. Just until we’ve saved enough for the mortgage.
—We’ve got the space,— William chimed in unexpectedly, setting his cup aside. —Two rooms just sitting empty. Why not help them out?
Eleanor shot him a look heavy with reproach:
—Was anyone going to ask me? Am I just to endure some stranger in my own home?
—Emma isn’t a stranger,— James felt anger simmering inside. —She’s my family.
—Family!— His mother scoffed. —This is a passing fancy, James. I see right through her. Do you think she loves you? She wants our flat, your money, your share!
James clenched his fists. They’d replayed this argument too many times. From the moment he’d introduced Emma, his mother had despised her—no reason, no explanation. Perhaps it was simply because Emma was the one who had disrupted the order, where James had always been under his mother’s control.
—Mum,— he said carefully, —a third of this flat belongs to me. By Gran’s will. I have every right to live here.
Eleanor paled:
—Are you threatening me? Your own mother? She’s put you up to this, hasn’t she? Taught you to blackmail me!
—Enough, Eleanor,— William interjected sharply. —James is right. This is his home too.
—Then let him live in his third!— Eleanor stood abruptly. —In the storage cupboard! Or out on the balcony!
James rose slowly, his patience snapping:
—Fine. If you won’t be reasonable, I’ll sell my share. And trust me, I’ll find neighbours who’ll make you regret it. Imagine living next to blaring music enthusiasts—or reptile collectors?
—You wouldn’t dare,— she hissed.
—You’ve got a week to decide,— James strode toward the door. —After that, I call the estate agent.
In the hallway, he paused, steadying himself. Never before had he challenged his mother like this. But for Emma, for their future, he was ready.
Back at their rented flat, Emma read the answer in his stormy expression.
—How did it go?— she asked anyway.
—As expected,— he sighed, sinking onto the sofa. —Dad’s on our side. Mum isn’t. But I made it clear—either we live there, or I sell my share.
Emma frowned:
—James, maybe we shouldn’t push… We’ll manage—
—No,— he cut in. —I won’t back down. She has to accept you.
A week passed without word. On the eighth day, James called the estate agent:
—I want to sell my third of the flat. Fast and cheap.
Three days later, the first “buyers” arrived—two men reeking of booze, tattoos snaking down their arms. William greeted them cheerfully:
—Come in, have a look! Prime location, lovely flat!
—Where’s our bit, then?— one grunted, eyeing the living room. —Sleep in the loo?
—That’s a legal matter,— William winked. —Technically, the whole place is shared.
Eleanor emerged from the bedroom, voice trembling with outrage:
—Who the devil are these people?
—Potential buyers, dear,— he replied smoothly. —Interested in James’s share.
—Get out!— she shrieked. —No one’s invading my home!
The next day brought an eccentric couple boasting a collection of tropical beetles. Eleanor blanched at the mention of “harmless spiders the size of your palm.” The third visitors were worse—a man who introduced himself as a midnight drumming enthusiast.
On the fourth day, Eleanor finally cracked and called James:
—You’re seriously selling to these lunatics?
—I warned you,— he said coldly. —You had your chance.
—Fine,— she spat. —Let your Emma come. But there will be rules!
That evening, James returned alone to negotiate. Emma stayed behind—he wouldn’t subject her to another round of humiliation.
—State your terms,— he said, meeting his mother’s gaze.
—None of her things in the common areas,— Eleanor began. —If she cooks, she cleans. And no guests!
—Now mine,— James crossed his arms. —We take the spare bedroom and study. Full use of the flat, same as you. And most importantly—you stop insulting her. One jab, and I sell. No warnings.
Eleanor gritted her teeth but nodded.
—Fine. But it’s temporary.
A week later, they moved in with only the essentials. William helped carry the boxes:
—Here’s your room. Make yourselves at home.
—Thanks, Dad,— James hugged him.
Eleanor lingered, arms folded. Emma tried to bridge the gap:
—Hello, Eleanor. Thank you for having us.
—Don’t mention it,— she snapped, retreating to the kitchen.
From day one, the silent war began. Eleanor avoided direct contact, relaying messages through William or James. She hid dishes, vacuumed at dawn while they slept, and inspected Emma’s cooking like a drill sergeant.
Emma endured it. She cleaned, cooked, laundered—hoping to earn even a shred of respect. Then she found her notebook shredded in the bin. Another day, her face cream smeared in the sink.
—She hates me,— Emma confessed after two months. —Maybe we should leave?
—No,— James said. —We’re not backing down. I’ll talk to her.
The conversation was brutal. James reminded Eleanor of his threat. She seethed:
—You’ve become a stranger, James! Blackmailing me over some girl!
—It’s not blackmail,— he said firmly. —It’s boundaries. Stop tormenting Emma, or I follow through.
After that, Eleanor grew subtler—but not kinder. She spread gossip among neighbours, painting Emma as lazy and gold-digging. The whispers stung, each one a fresh wound.
Unexpectedly, William became Emma’s ally. He admired her efforts, her quiet resilience. Evenings were spent discussing travels, old films, his youth.
—Don’t take it to heart,— he said once. —Eleanor’s afraid you’ll steal her son.
—I’m not stealing him,— Emma murmured. —I just love him.
—She’ll come around,— he smiled. —Give her time.
But time didn’t heal. Eleanor sabotaged Emma’s groceries, “accidentally” cut the Wi-Fi during her remote work. Emma bore it, clinging to their goal—their own flat.
Eighteen months later, on a frosty March evening, James arrived with news:
—We’ve done it! Mortgage approved—two-bed new build. We move next month!
William raised a toast at dinner:
—To your new home!
Eleanor sat silent, her glare speaking volumes.
—This is all our own money,— James added pointedly. —Emma’s too. She’s worked as hard as I have.
—So you just used us,— Eleanor said icily. —Lived here, saved up, now you’re off.
—Mum,— James met her eyes, —we lived in my share. Emma cleaned, cooked, put up with your cruelty. Who used who?
—She tore this family apart!— Eleanor burst out. —Turned you against me, wormed her way in!
Emma stood, voice trembling:
—I never wanted this. I just loved your son. You never gave me a chance.
Eleanor opened her mouth, but James cut her off:
—Enough. We’re leaving. Not just this table—your life. I won’t listen to you insult my wife again.
—James…— Eleanor started, but he was already leading Emma away.
—We’re gone in three weeks. And I won’t return until you learn respect.
William walked them to the door:
—I’ll talk to her. She’ll calm down.
James just shook his head.
Moving day was liberation. Their new flat, though small, breathed freedom. Unpacking that night, Emma paused:
—James… what if she never changes?
He held her close:
—Then that’s her choice. We’ll build our own life.
A month later, their doorbell rang.William stood on the doorstep, holding an old photograph and a note that simply read, “She’s ready to talk when you are.”
