A dazzling beam of sunlight pierces through the curtains, illuminating the tense faces around the dining table, yet even its warmth cannot melt the icy chill lingering in the spacious living room.
“We’d like to stay here for a couple of years,” James says firmly, masking the tremor in his voice. “It’ll help us save for our own flat.”
Beside him, Emma nervously fiddles with the edge of the tablecloth. Across from them, Margaret, James’s mother, freezes with a breadknife in her hand, looking as though she might slice through the very idea rather than the loaf before her. His father, Robert, sips his tea quietly, avoiding eye contact.
“Stay here?” Margaret slowly sets the knife down. “With… her?”
“Yes, Mum. With my wife,” James emphasises the last word. “We’re tired of renting. It’s temporary—just until we’ve saved enough for a mortgage.”
“There’s room,” Robert interjects, setting his cup aside. “Two empty bedrooms. Why not help them out?”
Margaret shoots him a sharp look. “Was I consulted? Am I supposed to tolerate a stranger in my home?”
“Emma isn’t a stranger,” James feels anger simmering inside him. “She’s my family.”
“Family!” Margaret scoffs. “This is just a fling, James. I see right through her. Do you really think she loves you? She wants this flat, your money, your share!”
James clenches his fists. This argument is nothing new. From the moment he introduced Emma, his mother despised her—no reason, no explanation. Perhaps because Emma disrupted the order where James had always been under Margaret’s control.
“Mum,” James keeps his voice steady, “a third of this flat belongs to me. Grandma’s will. I have every right to live here.”
Margaret pales. “Are you threatening me? Your own mother? She put you up to this, didn’t she? Taught you to blackmail me!”
“Enough, Margaret,” Robert raises his voice. “James is right. This is his home too.”
“Fine, let him live in his third!” Margaret snaps, standing abruptly. “In the cupboard! Or on the balcony!”
James rises slowly, his patience gone. “Alright. If you won’t be reasonable, I’ll sell my share. And trust me, I’ll find buyers who’ll make you regret it—loud music lovers, or maybe snake collectors?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Margaret hisses.
“You’ve got a week to decide,” James walks towards the door. “After that, I call the estate agent.”
In the hallway, he stops to steady his shaking hands. He’s never challenged his mother like this before. But for Emma, for their future, he’s ready to fight.
Back at their rented flat, Emma reads the answer in his grim expression. “How did it go?”
“Same as always,” he sinks onto the sofa. “Dad’s on our side, Mum’s against us. But I made it clear—either we live there, or I sell my share.”
Emma frowns. “James, maybe we shouldn’t… We’ll manage—”
“No,” he cuts in. “I won’t back down. She has to accept you.”
A week passes with no reply. On the eighth day, James calls the estate agent: “I want to sell my share. Quick and cheap.”
Three days later, the first “buyers” arrive—two men with tattoos and the pungent smell of alcohol. Robert greets them with a grin. “Come in, have a look! Prime London location!”
“Where’s our third gonna be?” one grunts, eyeing the living room. “Sleep in the bath?”
“That’s a legal matter,” Robert winks. “Technically, the whole flat’s shared.”
Margaret storms in, trembling with outrage. “Who are these people?”
“Buyers, love,” Robert replies casually. “Interested in James’s share.”
“Get out!” she shrieks. “No one’s invading my home!”
The next visitors are an eccentric couple boasting a collection of tropical beetles. Margaret turns pale at the mention of “harmless spiders the size of your hand.” The third prospect is worse—a self-proclaimed drumming enthusiast for “nighttime meditations.”
On the fourth day, Margaret caves and calls James. “You’d really sell to these lunatics?”
“I warned you,” he replies coldly. “You had your chance.”
“Fine,” she grits out. “Bring your Emma. But my rules stand!”
That evening, James returns alone to negotiate. Emma stays home—he won’t subject her to more humiliation.
“Name your terms,” he says, meeting his mother’s glare.
“None of her things in the shared spaces,” Margaret begins. “She cooks, she cleans up. And no guests!”
“Now mine,” James folds his arms. “We take the bedroom and study. Full use of the flat. And most importantly—you stop insulting her. One word, and I sell. No warnings.”
Margaret grits her teeth but nods. “Fine. But this is temporary.”
A week later, they move in with only the essentials. Robert helps carry boxes. “Here’s your room. Make yourselves comfortable.”
“Thanks, Dad,” James hugs him.
Margaret watches from afar, arms crossed. Emma tries to bridge the gap. “Hello, Margaret. Thank you for having us.”
“Don’t mention it,” Margaret snaps, retreating to the kitchen.
The quiet war begins. Margaret avoids speaking directly to Emma, communicating only through James or Robert. She hides dishes, vacuums at dawn, and scrutinises every trace of Emma’s presence.
Emma endures it. She cleans, cooks, hoping to earn even a shred of respect. But one day, she finds her notebook shredded in the bin. Another time, her face cream is squeezed into the sink.
“She hates me,” Emma confesses after two months. “Maybe we should leave.”
“No,” James replies. “We won’t give up. I’ll talk to her.”
The conversation is brutal. James reminds Margaret of his threat. She flares up. “You’ve turned against me for that girl!”
“Boundaries, Mum,” he says firmly. “One more jab, and I sell.”
Margaret backs off but doesn’t relent. She spreads rumours among neighbours, painting Emma as lazy and greedy. The gossip stings, but Emma holds on.
Unexpectedly, Robert becomes her ally. He praises her efforts, shares stories. “Don’t take it to heart,” he says one evening. “Margaret’s afraid you’ll take her son away.”
“I’m not taking him,” Emma murmurs. “I just love him.”
“She’ll see that,” he smiles. “Give her time.”
But time doesn’t help. Margaret sabotages Emma’s work, ruins her groceries. Emma bears it, their savings growing closer to a deposit.
A year and a half later, James comes home with news. “We did it! Mortgage approved. We move next month!”
Robert raises a toast. “To your new home!”
Margaret stays silent, her glare speaking volumes.
“All our money,” James adds. “Emma’s too. She worked just as hard.”
“So you used us,” Margaret says coldly. “Lived here, saved up, now you’re leaving.”
“Mum,” James meets her eyes, “we lived in my share. Emma cleaned, cooked, put up with you. Who used whom?”
“She ruined our family!” Margaret shouts. “Turned you against me!”
Emma stands. “I never wanted this. I just loved your son. You never gave me a chance.”
Margaret opens her mouth, but James cuts in. “Enough. We’re leaving. Not just this table—your life. I won’t let you insult my wife.”
“James—” Margaret starts, but he’s already leading Emma out.
“We leave in three weeks. And I won’t come back until you respect my family.”
Robert walks them to the door. “I’ll talk to her.”
But James just shakes his head.
The move is liberation. Their small flat breathes freedom. Unpacking, Emma hesitates. “What if she never changes?”
James hugs her. “Then that’s her choice. We’ll build our life.”
A month later, Robert arrives with a small box. “From Margaret,” he says. “She wanted you to have this.”
Inside is a family photo—young James with his parents—and a note: *”I was wrong. Invite us when you’re ready.”*
Emma looks at James. He stares at the note, silent. Outside, spring blooms. The flat smells of fresh paint and hope. Maybe time can change things. But that’s another story—one they’ll write together.
