The Timer on the Coffee Table — “You’ve put the salt in the wrong place again,” she said, not lifting her gaze from the saucepan. He froze mid-motion, the salt jar in hand as he eyed the shelf. The salt was right where it had always been, next to the sugar bowl. — “Where’s it supposed to go?” he asked cautiously. — “Not ‘where it’s supposed to’. Where I actually look for it. I’ve told you before.” — “It’d be easier if you just said the spot, rather than me guessing,” he replied, irritation bubbling up in his chest. She switched the hob off with a forceful click, set the lid down, and turned towards him. — “I’m tired of always saying things. Sometimes I just want things to be where I expect.” — “So, I’m getting it wrong again?” he concluded, shifting the salt a touch to the right on the shelf. She opened her mouth to snap back, but instead slammed the cupboard door and left the kitchen. He stood there holding the spoon, listening to her footsteps down the hallway. Then he sighed, tasted the soup, and automatically salted it again. They ate in silence an hour later. The news mumbled from the living room TV, the screen glinting off the glass of the sideboard. She ate slowly, hardly looking at him. He fiddled with his fork, tracing out every step of their familiar routine: some small thing, a complaint, his comment, her silence. — “Are we just going to always live like this?” she asked suddenly. He looked up. — “What do you mean?” — “I mean, you do something, I get frustrated, you get defensive. On and on.” — “Well, what else? It’s tradition,” he tried to joke. She didn’t smile. — “I read about something,” she said. “Talking sessions. Once a week. With a timer.” He blinked. — “A what?” — “A timer. Ten minutes for me, ten for you. No ‘you always’, no ‘you never’. Just ‘I feel’, ‘I need’, ‘I want’. The other just… listens. No arguing, no defending.” — “From the internet?” he checked. — “A book. Doesn’t matter. I want to try.” He reached for his water, taking a slow sip. — “What if I don’t want to?” he said, careful not to sound too sharp. — “Then we’ll keep fighting about salt,” she answered, completely calm. “And I really don’t want that.” He looked at her face. The lines round her mouth had deepened over the years, and he’d not noticed when. She seemed tired—not just tired of today, but as if from a whole life. — “Alright,” he said quietly. “But I warn you—I don’t know much about these… methods…” — “You don’t have to be talented,” she smiled tiredly. “Just honest.” On Thursday evening, he sat on the sofa, phone in hand, pretending to read the news. There was a heavy feeling in his stomach, the sort that comes before a dentist trip. On the coffee table sat the kitchen timer—a white, round plastic thing, numbers round the edge. She usually set it when she baked pies. Tonight, it lay between them, out of place. She brought two cups of tea, set them down, and sat opposite. She was wearing an old jumper stretched at the elbows, her hair tied messily up. — “So,” she said, “shall we?” — “Is there an agenda?” he tried a joke. — “Yes,” she replied. “I go first. Ten minutes, then you. If anything’s left, we save it for next time.” He nodded, put his phone aside. She picked up the timer, twisted it to ‘10’, and pressed the button. The soft ticking filled the space. — “I feel…” she began, then paused. He found himself bracing for the usual “you never” or “you always,” his body tensing in anticipation. But she, with her hands clenched, continued: — “I feel like I’m just… background. The house, the meals, your shirts, our days—they just happen. And if I stopped, everything would crumble, but no one would even notice. Not until it was much too late.” He ached to say he noticed. That he just didn’t say it. That maybe, she never let him do things. But he remembered the rule and kept quiet. — “It matters to me,” she glanced at him, “that what I do is… visible. Not praise, not daily thanks. Just sometimes, that you see what it costs. That it’s not automatic.” He swallowed. The timer ticked on. He wanted to protest—he was tired, too, work was no easier. But there was no “add a comment midway” rule. — “I want…” She sighed. “I don’t want to be the default responsible for everything. Your health, our holidays, the kids’ lives. Sometimes I want to be allowed to be weak. Not always the strong one.” He looked at her hands. The ring on her finger—the one he’d chosen for their tenth anniversary—was now a little too tight. He remembered how nervous he was picking the size. The timer beeped. She jerked slightly, gave a nervous half-laugh. — “That’s it. My ten minutes.” — “Right…” he cleared his throat. “My turn, then.” She nodded and reset the timer, nudging it over. He felt like a schoolboy at the board. — “I feel…” he started, hearing how awkward he sounded. “I feel like, at home, I always want to hide. Because, if I get something wrong, you’ll see it immediately. If I get it right, it’s just what’s expected, nothing more.” She nodded slightly, silent. — “It matters to me,” he went on, listening to himself, “that when I get home from work and put my feet up, it isn’t a crime. I’ve not been sitting around all day—I’m tired, too.” He caught her gaze: tired, but attentive. — “I want…” he hesitated, “I want when you get angry not to say I ‘don’t understand anything.’ I do. Maybe not everything, but definitely not nothing. When you say that, I just want to shut down. No answer will be right.” The timer beeped. He flinched, as if he’d been pulled from deep water. They sat in silence. The TV was off. Something hummed quietly in the next room: the fridge, maybe, or the radiators. — “Feels strange,” she said at last. “Like rehearsal.” — “Like we’re not married, just… patients.” He searched for the word. She grinned wryly. — “Well, patients it is. Let’s give it a month. Once a week.” He shrugged. — “A month’s not a life sentence.” She nodded, gathering up the timer and heading to the kitchen. He watched her go, oddly aware that they now owned a new bit of furniture. On Saturday, they went shopping. She pushed the trolley ahead, he followed with the list: milk, chicken, pasta. — “Grab some tomatoes,” she called, not looking back. He picked a few, bagged them, and caught himself wanting to say, “I feel these tomatoes are heavy,” and snorted. — “What’s funny?” she turned to him. — “Practising,” he replied. “The new wording.” She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched at the corners. — “No need in public,” she retorted. “Although… maybe sometimes there is.” They passed by the biscuit aisle. He reached for her favourite, then remembered what she said about sugar and blood pressure. His hand hovered. — “Go on,” she said, seeing his hesitation. “I’m not a child. If I don’t eat them, I’ll take them to work.” He put the pack in the trolley. — “I…” he started, then stopped. — “What?” she prompted. — “I know you do a lot,” he said, looking at the price tag. “In case you need it for Thursday.” She looked at him, properly, and nodded. — “I’ll note it down,” she said. The second talk went worse. He was fifteen minutes late—work, traffic, then a call from their son. She was already waiting, timer on the table, grid-paper notebook beside her. — “Ready?” she asked, skipping greetings. — “Just a minute,” he took off his jacket, hung it over a chair, grabbed water in the kitchen, and returned, feeling her eyes on his back. — “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “If you’re bored, say so.” — “Not bored,” he grumbled, though every part of him wanted to refuse. “Just been a rough day.” — “Me too,” she replied tightly. “But I showed up on time.” He gripped his glass. — “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.” She turned the timer to ‘10’. — “I feel,” she began, “like we live as housemates. We talk about bills, groceries, health, but never about what we want. I can’t remember the last time we planned a holiday for just us—not going where we’re invited, but actually planned.” He thought of her sister’s cottage, last year’s NHS getaway. — “It matters to me,” she went on, “that we make plans together. Not just ‘maybe we’ll go to the seaside someday,’ but something real: here, then, for this long. And not just me pushing—it should be ours.” He nodded, though her eyes didn’t meet his. — “I want…” she faltered, “I want us to talk about sex not only when it’s missing. It’s embarrassing to say, but I miss not only that—I miss touches, hugs, not on a schedule.” He felt his ears flush. He wanted to make a joke about their ages, but the words wouldn’t come. — “When you turn to the wall at night,” she said, “I feel like you’re no longer interested. Not just in me—as me—but in general.” The timer ticked. He avoided looking at it, unwilling to see how long he had left. — “That’s it,” she said when the beep went off. “Your turn.” He reached for the timer, but his hand shook. She set it for him and pushed it closer. — “I feel,” he said, “that whenever we talk about money, it’s like I’m… an ATM. If I say no to something, it’s seen as stingy, not fear.” She pressed her lips together but said nothing. — “It matters to me that you know,” he continued, “I’m afraid of losing our security. I remember counting every penny back in the nineties. When you say, ‘it’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ everything tightens inside me.” He took a breath. — “I want that when you plan a big purchase, we talk first. Not ‘I’m already signed up, I’ve already ordered, it’s done.’ I don’t mind the spending; I mind surprises.” The timer beeped. He felt relief. — “Can I say something?” she burst out. “It’s not in the rules, but I can’t hold it in.” He stilled. — “Go on,” he said. — “When you say you’re an ATM,” her voice shook, “it feels like you think all I do is spend. But I’m scared, too. Scared of falling ill, scared you’ll leave, scared of being alone. Sometimes I buy things just to feel like there’s… a future. Like we’re still making plans.” He almost fired back, but stopped in time. They looked at each other, the table between them like a border. — “That wasn’t by the timer,” he murmured. — “I know,” she replied. “I’m not a robot.” He grinned, but without humour. — “Maybe this method isn’t for real, living people,” he muttered. — “It’s for those who want another go,” she said. He slumped back, exhausted. — “Let’s stop for tonight,” he suggested. She glanced at the timer, then at him. — “Alright,” she agreed. “But let’s not call it a failure. Just… a note in the margin.” He nodded. She picked up the timer, but instead of putting it away, left it at the edge of the table—as if to signal they could come back. That night, he couldn’t sleep. She lay at his side, facing away. He reached out, wanting to place a hand on her shoulder, but stopped short. Her word— “like housemates”—circled in his mind. He withdrew his hand, lay on his back, staring into the dark. The third talk happened a week later, but started sooner, on the bus. They were headed to the surgery: he for an ECG, she for tests. The bus was crowded; they stood, gripping the support rail. She was silent, gazing out the window, and he studied her profile. — “Are you angry?” he asked. — “No,” she said. “Thinking.” — “About what?” — “About getting older,” she replied, still looking out. “And that if we don’t learn to talk now, one day we just won’t have the energy.” He wanted to insist he was still fine, but the words stuck. He remembered how yesterday he’d struggled up five flights of stairs. — “I’m afraid,” he blurted, surprising himself. “That they’ll admit me to hospital, and you’ll visit with bags of things and just silently resent me.” She turned to him. — “I wouldn’t be angry,” she said. “I’d be scared.” He nodded. That evening, when they sat on the sofa, the timer was waiting on the coffee table. She placed two mugs nearby, sat across from him. — “Let’s start with you tonight,” she suggested. “I had my say on the bus.” He sighed, turned the timer to ‘10’. — “I feel,” he began, “that when you talk about being tired, I instantly think I’m being blamed. Even when you’re not. I start defending myself before you’re halfway through.” She nodded. — “It matters to me,” he continued, “to learn to hear you, not just defend myself. But I don’t know how. Growing up, I learned if you’re to blame, you get punished. So, when you tell me things are bad, I hear: ‘you’re bad’.” It was the first time he’d ever said it aloud, and he was surprised. — “I want us to agree: when you talk about your feelings, it doesn’t automatically mean I’m guilty. And if I’ve done wrong, please be specific: ‘yesterday’, ‘just now’—not always.” The timer ticked. She listened, quietly. — “That’s it,” he exhaled, as the timer beeped. “Your turn.” She reset it. — “I feel,” she started slowly, “I’ve lived in ‘hold it together’ mode for years. For the kids, for you, parents. And when you go silent, it feels like I’m the only one pulling everything along.” He remembered last year, at her mum’s funeral. He had mostly just kept silent, back then. — “It matters to me,” she went on, “for you to start a conversation sometimes. Not waiting until I explode; coming up to me—‘How are you?’ ‘Shall we talk?’ Because every time I have to start, I feel… pushy.” He nodded. — “I want us to agree on two things. First: we don’t talk serious stuff if one of us is tired or angry—not while rushing, not in the corridor by the lift. We can reschedule.” He listened, watching her face. — “Second,” she said, “we don’t raise our voices in front of the kids. I know I slip, but I don’t want them to see us shouting.” The timer beeped, but she finished anyway. — “That’s my lot,” she added quickly. He smiled faintly. — “That’s not in the rules,” he noted. — “It’s real life,” she replied. He tapped the timer to turn it off. — “I agree,” he said. “Both points.” She slouched — ever so slightly. — “And I want a rule of my own,” he added after a moment. “Just one.” — “What?” she grew wary. — “If we don’t finish in the ten minutes, we don’t carry on the fight into the night. We move it to next Thursday—no running battles.” She thought about it. — “Alright. But if it’s urgent?” — “If it’s urgent, we put out the fire—just not with petrol.” She snorted. — “Deal,” she said. Between their talks, life ticked on. He made his coffee each morning, she scrambled eggs. He had started washing up sometimes, without being asked. She noticed, but didn’t always say so. In the evenings, they watched telly, argued about which TV character was in the right. Sometimes she almost said, “We’re like that,” but remembered their rule—and saved it for Thursday. Once, she was stirring a pan of soup, and he came up behind, slipped an arm around her waist—no reason. — “What is it?” she asked, not turning. — “Nothing,” he replied. “Just practising.” — “Practising what?” she frowned. — “Touching,” he said. “Not just on a timetable.” She smirked, but didn’t move away. — “I’ll make a note of that,” she said. A month later, they sat together again, timer between them. — “Shall we carry on?” he asked. — “What do you think?” she replied. He eyed the white plastic timer, her hands, his knees. — “I think so,” he said. “We’re not done yet.” — “We never will be,” she shrugged. “It’s not a test. It’s… like brushing your teeth.” He laughed. — “How romantic.” — “But straightforward,” she returned. She set the timer for ‘10’ and placed it down. — “Let’s not stick too rigidly to the rules tonight,” she suggested. “If we wander off topic, we can steer back.” — “No need to be fanatical,” he agreed. She exhaled. — “I feel,” she said, “it’s gotten a bit easier. Not perfect, but… like I’m no longer invisible. You talk more, ask more. I notice.” He flushed. — “It matters to me,” she continued, “not to drop this when things feel ‘easier’. Not to slip back to silence until we explode.” He nodded. — “I want,” she finished, “that a year from now we can say—we’re a bit more honest. Not perfect, not argument-free—just… honest.” The timer ticked. He listened, and for once had no urge to cut in with a joke. — “Done,” she said when the beep came. “Now you.” He picked up the timer, set it. — “I feel,” he admitted, “more anxious now. It was easier to just hide behind not talking—now I have to speak up. I worry I’ll say something wrong, or hurt you.” She listened, head cocked. — “It matters to me that you remember: I’m not the enemy. When I talk about my fears, it’s not against you. It’s just… about me.” He paused. — “I want us to stick with this rule—once a week, honestly and without blame. Even if we slip up sometimes. Let it be… our contract.” The timer beeped. He turned it off before the next signal. They sat quietly. In the kitchen something clicked—the kettle finished boiling. Someone was laughing through the wall; a door slammed elsewhere in the building. — “You know,” she said, “I used to think we needed one big revelation—like in a film—for things to change. Turns out…” — “Turns out we’re just doing it, bit by bit, every week,” he finished. — “Yeah,” she nodded. “Bit by bit.” He looked at her face. The wrinkles were still there, the tiredness too. But now, there was something else—attention, perhaps. — “Let’s have tea,” he suggested. — “Let’s,” she agreed. She gathered up the timer, carried it to the kitchen. Set it by the sugar bowl, not tucked away. He filled the kettle, set it on the hob. — “My GP appointment is after work next Thursday,” she said, leaning on the table. “I might be late.” — “We’ll push the talk to Friday, then,” he replied. “No important chats when you’re tired.” She glanced up and smiled. — “Deal,” she said. He opened a cupboard, took out two mugs, set them on the table. The kettle was starting to rumble. — “Where’s the salt go?” he called, remembering the first row. She turned round and saw the jar in his hand. — “Where I look for it,” she replied reflexively, then paused. “Second shelf, on the left.” He put it where she’d said. — “Understood,” he said. She stepped over, touching his shoulder. — “Thanks for asking,” she murmured. He nodded. The kettle roared. The timer sat quietly on the table, waiting for the next Thursday.

Author Walton MerrittReading 19 minViews 2

The Timer on the Table

Youve put the salt in the wrong place again, she said, not glancing up from the saucepan.

I froze, jar in hand, staring at the shelf. The salt was right where it always was, next to the sugar bowl.

And wheres it supposed to go? I asked carefully.

Not where its supposed to go. Where I look for it. Ive told you before.

It would be easier if you just told me where rather than making me guess, I said, feeling that familiar irritation brewing inside.

With a clatter, she turned off the hob, put the lid down, and faced me.

Im tired of saying it all the time. Sometimes I just wish it would be where it should be.

So, Im doing everything wrong again, I concluded, putting the salt back on the shelf, just a touch to the right.

She was about to reply, but instead banged a cupboard door and left the kitchen. I stood there with the spoon, listening to her footsteps down the hallway. After a moment, I sighed, tasted the soup, and absent-mindedly added more salt.

An hour later, we ate in silence. The news mumbled from the lounge TV, its blue light flickering in the glass of the display cabinet. She picked at her food, barely looking at me. I prodded a meatball with my fork, thinking about how things always followed the same route: something small, a complaint, my retort, her silence.

Is this how were going to live? she asked out of nowhere.

I looked up.

What do you mean?

I mean, she put her fork down, you do something, I get annoyed, you get upset. Round and round we go.

I tried to smile. Well, its tradition for us, isnt it?

She didnt find it funny.

I read something, she said. About conversations. Once a week. With a timer.

I blinked. With a what?

A timer. Ten minutes for me, ten for you. No you always, no you never. Just I feel, it matters to me, I want. And the other listensno arguing, no defending, just listening.

From the internet? I asked.

A book, actually. Doesnt matter. I want to try it.

I reached for a glass of water, buying a few seconds.

And if I dont want to? I tried not to sound too harsh.

Then well keep arguing about salt, she said quietly. And I dont want that.

I studied her face. The lines around her mouth had grown deeper over the yearsI couldnt remember exactly when. She looked tired, but not the everyday sort of tired. More like she was weary from a whole life.

All right, I said slowly. But I warn you, Im rubbish at all these techniques of yours.

You dont have to be good at it, she gave a tired smile. You just have to be honest.

That Thursday evening, I sat on the sofa with my phone, pretending to scroll through the news. My stomach had that queasy feeling, like waiting for the dentist.

On the coffee table was the kitchen timera round, white thing, numbers around its edge. Usually, she only set it when baking tarts. Tonight, it sat between us, oddly out of place.

She brought two mugs of tea, set them down, sat opposite me. She wore a baggy home-knit jumper, sleeves sagging at the elbows. Her hair was up in a messy bun.

Well, she said. Shall we?

Do we have rules? I joked.

Yes. I go first. Ten minutes. Then you. If theres more, save it for next time.

I nodded and put my phone aside. She took the timer, turned the dial to 10, and pressed the button. A quiet ticking began.

I feel she started, stopping herself.

I braced for the familiar you never or you always, my shoulders tensing. But, clasping her hands, she went on:

I feel like Im just the background. The house, dinners, your shirts, our dayseverything just happens. And if I stopped, it would all fall apart, and no one would even notice unless it was a disaster.

I wanted to say I do notice. That I just dont say it out loud. That maybe she never gives me a chance to do anything. But I remembered the rule and pressed my lips together.

It matters to meshe flicked a glance my way, then looked awaythat what I do isnt invisible. Im not after daily praise or thanks. Just sometimes not just the soups nice, but that you understand how much it takes, that its not magic.

I swallowed. The timer ticked on. I wanted to point out that I get tired too, that work isnt easy. But you werent allowed to jump in.

I want she sighed. I want to not be by default responsible for everything. Your health, our holidays, relations with the kids. Id like, sometimes, to not have to be strongjust for a bit.

I looked at her hands. The ring Id given her for our tenth wedding anniversary now dug slightly into her finger. I remembered fussing so much over the right size back then.

The timer beeped. She jumped and gave a shaky half-smile.

Thats it, she said. My ten minutes.

I I cleared my throat. My turn.

She nodded and moved the timer closer.

I felt like a schoolboy told to stand at the blackboard.

I feel I began, realising I sounded foolish, I feel like at home, I often just want to hide. Because if I mess something up, youll notice, and if I do things right, its just expected.

She nodded, not interrupting.

It matters to me I listened to my own words, that when I get home and sit in the armchair, its not a crime. I dont sit doing nothing all dayout there, I get tired too.

She gave me that tired but attentive look.

I want I hesitated. I want that when youre cross, you dont say I dont understand anything. I do understand. Maybe not all of it, but its not nothing. When you say that, I just want to shut down and say nothing. Because whatever I say is going to be wrong.

The timer beeped again. I jerked, as if pulled from water.

We sat in silence for a while. The TV was off, somewhere in the flat something hummedthe fridge, or the radiator.

Feels odd, she said. Like a rehearsal.

Like were not husband and wife, butI searched for a wordpatients.

She smirked.

Well, patients it is. Lets agree to try a month. Once a week.

I shrugged. Could be worse.

She nodded and took the timer to the kitchen. I watched her go, wondering why it felt like wed gained a new bit of furniture.

On Saturday we went shopping. She led with the trolley, I trailed behind, ticking off milk, chicken, rice.

Get some tomatoes, she said, not looking back.

I picked some out and caught myself thinking, I feel like the tomatoes are heavy. I snorted.

Whats up? she turned.

Im practising, I said. The new lingo.

She rolled her eyes, but her mouth twitched.

You dont have to in public, she said. Though maybe you should.

We passed the biscuit shelf. I reached for her favourite by force of habit, but remembered her worries about sugar and her blood pressure. My hand hovered.

Go on, she said, noticing. Im not a child. If I dont eat them, Ill take them to work.

I dropped them in the trolley.

I I began, then paused.

What? she prompted.

I know you do a lot, I said, focusing on the price label. Thats for Thursday.

She eyed me, then nodded. Duly noted.

The second conversation was harder.

I was fifteen minutes late: work, traffic, then a call from our son. She was already waiting, timer on the table, her notepad beside it.

Ready? she asked, no greeting.

One minute, I took my coat off, slung it on the chair back, grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, came back and sat, feeling her gaze on me.

You dont have to do this, she said. If youre not interested, just say.

I am interested, I replied, though everything inside balked. Just had a rough day.

So did I, she said shortly. But I showed up on time.

I gripped the glass.

Fine, then, I said. Lets start.

She turned the timer to 10.

I feel, she began, like we live as flatmates. We talk about bills, food, health, but almost never about what we want. I cant remember the last time we planned a holiday just for us, not wherever we were invited.

I thought about her sisters place and last years health retreat, courtesy of her works benevolent fund.

It matters to me, she went on, that we have plans, not just chores. Not just someday well go to the seaside, but where, when, how long. And that its not just me dragging us along, but both of us.

I nodded, though she looked past me.

I want, she hesitated, I want us to talk about sex not just when were not having any. I feel awkward saying it, but I miss not just the act, but attention. Hugs, touch, not according to schedule.

My ears burned. I wanted to joke about our age, but couldnt get the words out.

When you turn away at night, she said, I think youre not interested in me anymore. Not just as a womanat all.

The timer ticked. I tried not to watch the minutes die.

Thats it, she said when it beeped. Your turn.

I reached for the timer, but my hand shook. She reset it and pushed it my way.

I feel, I started, like when we talk about money, Im a cash machine. If I say no to something, its tight-fistedness, not fear.

She pressed her lips together but was silent.

It matters to me that you know, I kept going, I worry about having nothing set aside. I remember the nineties when every pound counted. And when you say, Dont worry so much, it makes me seize up inside.

I took a breath.

I want, when you plan a big purchase, that we discuss it first. Not after youve already made plans and sent the order. Im not against spending, Im against surprises.

The timer beeped. I felt relief.

Can I say something? she burst out. Not by the rules, but I have to.

I froze.

Go ahead, I said.

When you say cash machine, and her voice trembled, its like you think all I do is spend. Im scared, too. I worry Ill fall ill, youll leave, that Ill end up alone. Sometimes I buy things, not because I want to waste your money, but because I need to feel like we still have a future. That we have something planned.

I opened my mouth to answer, but thought better of it. We looked at each other across the table, as if there was a border between us.

Weve gone off the timer, I said quietly.

I know, she replied. But Im not a robot.

I managed a humourless smile.

Maybe this technique isnt for real people, I muttered.

Its for people who want to try again, she said.

I slumped back on the sofa, exhaustion in every bone.

Thats enough for tonight, I suggested.

She glanced from timer to me.

Agreed, she said. Lets not call it a failure. Just a note in the margin.

I nodded. She picked up the timer but didnt take it away, just set it near the tables edge, like a reminder we could come back.

That night, I couldnt sleep. She lay beside me, turned away. I reached out, wanting to put my hand on her shoulder, but stopped a few inches short. Her words about feeling like a housemate went round and round in my head.

Quietly, I drew my hand back, rolled onto my back, staring into the dark.

The third conversation came a week laterbegan early, on the bus.

We were off to GP: me for an ECG, her for bloods. The bus was crowded, we stood gripping the rails. She was silent, looking out the window. I watched her profile.

Are you angry? I asked.

No, she said. Just thinking.

About what?

About getting older, she answered, watching the street go by. And that if we dont learn to talk now, we wont have the energy later.

I wanted to say I was doing fine, but couldnt. I remembered how breathless Id been climbing to the fifth floor last night.

Im scared, I admitted quietly. That Ill end up in hospital, and youll visit me, bringing sandwiches, and be furious the whole time.

She turned to me.

I wont be angry, she said. Ill be scared.

I nodded.

That evening, on the sofa, the timer was waiting. She put two mugs of tea on the table and sat across from me.

Lets start with you tonight, she suggested. Ive had my say on the bus.

I sighed, turned the dial to 10.

I feel, I began, that when you talk about being tired, I immediately hear it as blame. Even when you arent blaming me, I start justifying myself, before youve even finished.

She nodded.

It matters to me, I said, that I learn to listen to you, and not just defend myself. But I dont know how. As a kid, it was always, Youre in trouble, now therell be consequences. So, when you say youre feeling bad, I just hear, Youre bad.

It was the first time Id said that aloud, and even I was surprised.

I want, I said, for us to agree that when you talk about your feelings, it doesnt mean Im guilty. And if I do something wrong, you tell me specificallyyesterday, just nownot a sweeping statement.

The timer ticked. She listened quietly.

Thats it, I said, when it beeped. Your turn.

She reset the timer.

I feel, she said slowly, that Ive been living in hang in there mode for ages. For everyone. The kids, you, my parents. And when you go silent, I feel like Im dragging everything by myself.

I remembered her mothers funeral last yearhow little Id said then.

It matters to me, she went on, that you sometimes start a conversation. Not just wait till I explode, but actually come and say, How are you? or, Shall we talk? When I initiate everything, I feel needy.

I nodded.

I want, she said, pausing, for us to agree on two things. First: no serious talks when either of us is exhausted or fumingnot while rushing around, not on the doorstep. If we must, we push it to another time.

I listened, focusing on her face.

Second, she said, we dont raise our voices in front of the kids. I know I slip sometimes, but I dont want them seeing us shout.

The timer beeped, but she wrapped up quickly.

Thats it, she said.

I smiled faintly.

Thats off the script, you know.

Maybe, but its real life, she replied.

I switched the timer off.

I agree, I said. To both.

She sat back a little more easily.

I want one more thing too, I added after a pause.

She looked wary. What?

If we cant finish in the ten minutes, we dont drag the row through the night. We save it for the next Thursday. No never-ending fronts.

She considered.

Lets try it, she said. But what if its urgent?

If its on fire, we deal with it, I nodded. But not by pouring petrol on it.

She let out a soft laugh. Deal.

Life flowed on between the talks.

Each morning I made my own coffee, she fried eggs. Sometimes I did the washing-up without her asking. She noticed, but didnt always say. In the evenings we watched TV dramas, arguing about which character was right. Sometimes she started to comment, Thats like us, but stopped herself, saving it for Thursday.

One evening, she was at the stove stirring soup when I came up behind and put my arm around her waist. For no reason at all.

Whats that for? she asked, not turning.

Nothing, I said. Just practising.

Practising what? she asked.

Touch, I replied. Not just to a timetable.

She smirked, but didnt draw away.

Ill make a note of that, she said.

A month on, we were back on the sofa, timer between us.

Shall we keep going? I asked.

What do you think? she replied.

I looked at the white round gadget, at her hands, at my own knees.

I think yes, I said. We still havent got the hang of it.

We never will, not perfectly, she shrugged. Its not an exam. Its like brushing your teeth.

I snorted.

Romantic.

At least you get it, she replied.

She set the timer and placed it back.

Lets not be strict today, she offered. If we wander off track, well get back to it.

No point overdoing it, I agreed.

She took a breath.

I feel, she said, like its become lighter. Not in every way, but I dont feel invisible anymore. Youve started to talk, to ask. I do notice.

I felt a bit self-conscious.

It matters to me, she went on, that we don’t drop this if things start to feel easier. That we dont slip back into old silences till something explodes.

I nodded.

I want, she said, that in a year we can say: Were more honest. Not perfect, not argument-free, just more real.

The timer ticked. I listened and, for once, didnt feel like joking.

All done, she said at the beep. Your go.

I picked up the timer, set it.

I feel, I told her, Im a bit more scared now. It was easier to hide behind silence than to have to speak. I worry Ill say the wrong thing and hurt you.

She listened, head tilted.

It matters to me, I continued, that you remember Im not the enemy. If I talk about my fears, its not against youits just whats inside me.

I paused.

I want us to stick to this rule. Once a weekhonestly and without blame. Even if we mess it up now and then. Let it be our contract.

The timer beeped again. I shut it off early.

We sat in the quiet. In the kitchen, the kettle clicked off. Next door, the neighbours laughed, a door thudded in the corridor.

You know, she said, I kept thinking we needed a big breakthrough, like something you see in films. One moment that changes everything. But really

But really, its just little by little, week by week, I finished.

Yeah, she nodded. Bit by bit.

I looked at her face. The wrinkles, the tiredness were still there. But there was something elsea kind of attention.

Lets have tea, I suggested.

Lets, she agreed.

She took the timer to the kitchen, setting it next to the sugar bowl without hiding it away. I filled the kettle at the sink and turned on the hob.

I’ve got a GP appointment after work next Thursday, she said, pressing her hands on the kitchen table. I might be late.

Well move it to Friday, then, I replied. Lets not do this when youre worn out.

She smiled at me.

Deal, she said.

I opened the cupboard, fetched two mugs, and set them down. The kettle began to rumble.

Where do you want the salt? I asked suddenly, remembering our first talk.

She turned, saw the jar in my hand.

Where I look for it, she replied automatically, then stopped herself and added, Second shelf, left-hand side.

I put the jar where she said.

Got it, I said.

She came closer, touched my arm.

Thank you for asking, she said softly.

I nodded. The kettle started to boil. The timer waited, in silence, for its next Thursday.

“It’s My House, My Kitchen,” Declared My Mother-in-Law — “Thank you, is that what I get for not even having the right to make a mistake? In my own home…” — “In my home,” Rimma Markovna corrected quietly but firmly. “This is my house, Yulia. And in my kitchen, there’s no place for inedible food.” Kitchen silence fell. “Yulia dear, you know yourself that was impossible to serve.” “Your parents are decent people; I couldn’t let them chew on that shoe-leather,” Rimma Markovna dispensed tea into delicate china cups with stoic composure. Yulia stood at the edge of the table, feeling her insides clench into a hot, hard knot. Her ears rang. On her parents’ plates, who’d just gone into the lounge with Kirill, were the remnants of that very “shoe-leather”: juicy duck breast with cranberry sauce, which Yulia had spent four hours cooking. Or, she thought she was. “It’s not shoe-leather,” Yulia’s voice shook as she forced herself to meet her mother-in-law’s eyes. “I marinated it using Mum’s recipe. I bought a farm duck especially. Where is it, Rimma Markovna?” Her mother-in-law set aside the teapot elegantly and wiped her hands on a pure white towel. Not a trace of remorse on her face—just a pitying condescension reserved for foolish puppies. “It’s in the rubbish, my dear. Your marinade… how can I put this politely… smelt so much of vinegar it stung the eyes. So I made a proper confit. With thyme, low and slow. Did you see your dad asking for second helpings? That’s the standard. That stuff you hacked together could work for a motorway caff, not for my table.” “You had no right,” Yulia whispered. “That was my dinner. My anniversary gift for my parents. You didn’t even ask!” “What’s there to ask?” Rimma Markovna raised an eyebrow, her gaze flashing with the steely professionalism of a head chef used to barking at line cooks in Michelin-starred kitchens. “You don’t ask permission to put out a fire. I was saving the family reputation. Kirill would have been upset if our guests were poisoned. Go, serve the cake. By the way, I tweaked that too—the cream was too runny, I thickened it and added some zest.” Yulia looked at her hands. They shook a little. She’d spent all day flying around the kitchen, while Rimma Markovna was supposedly “resting in her room.” Yulia measured every gram, strained the sauce, garnished the plates. She wanted to prove she wasn’t just “Kirill’s girl”—but the lady of the house, capable of setting a table. But the moment she left for half an hour to tidy up before the guests, “the professional” took over the kitchen. “Yulia, what’s taking so long?” Kirill appeared in the doorway, looking relaxed and a bit flushed from the wine. “Mum, the duck was banging! Yulia, you outdid yourself, honestly. Didn’t know you could do that.” Yulia turned to her husband. “It wasn’t me, Kirill.” “What do you mean?” He blinked in confusion. “Literally. Your mum threw out my food and made her own. Everything you ate tonight—from salad to main—was her doing.” Kirill froze, glancing from wife to mother. Rimma Markovna, ever timely, started wiping an already sparkling countertop. “Come on, Yulia…” Kirill tried to hug her shoulders, but she shrugged him off. “Mum just wanted to help. She saw something wrong… she’s a pro, you know how obsessed she is with quality. But it tasted amazing! Your parents loved it. Who cares who was at the stove, if the evening was a success?” “Who cares?” Yulia felt tears well up. “It matters, Kirill, because I’m a nobody in this house. Furniture. A prop. I planned that menu for three days! I wanted to feed my own mum and dad myself! Your mother once again made me look like an idiot who can’t even make sauce.” “No one made you look that way,” Rimma Markovna said, folding the towel. “We didn’t tell them. They think you did it. I saved your face, dear. You might thank me instead of this dramatic performance.” “Thank you?” Yulia let out a bitter laugh. “Thank you for taking away my right to fail—even in my own home…” “In my home,” Rimma Markovna corrected quietly but weightily. “This is my house, Yulia. And in my kitchen, there’s no place for inedibles.” Silence fell in the kitchen. Only the distant murmur of the TV and her dad’s laughter from the lounge broke it. They’re fine out there. They think their daughter’s wonderful. But she felt as if she’d been publicly slapped, and then the wound doused with salt. Yulia silently left the kitchen, passing the guests. “Mum, Dad, sorry, I don’t feel well. Head’s pounding. Kirill will see you out, okay?” “Yulia, darling, what’s wrong?” Her mother fussed, standing up. “The duck was divine, maybe you’re exhausted after cooking so much?” “Yes,” Yulia replied, gazing past her mother’s shoulder. “Very exhausted. I won’t do it again.” She shut herself in the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed. One thought pounded at her head: “This can’t go on.” It had been six months since they’d moved in “temporarily” with Rimma Markovna to save for a house deposit. Whenever she shopped, her mother-in-law said with distaste: “Where did you find this tomato? It’s plastic. Good only for film props, not for salads.” If she tried to fry potatoes, Rimma would sigh heavily behind her as though Yulia were committing a crime. Eventually, Yulia just stopped entering the kitchen if Rimma was there. But tonight was supposed to be her triumph, not her capitulation. The door creaked; Kirill came in. “Everyone’s gone. I think it went great, except for your meltdown. Sure, Mum went overboard, but I’ll talk to her—” “Don’t bother,” Yulia interrupted, starting to pack a travel bag. “What are you doing?” Kirill froze at the door. “Packing. I’m going to my parents’ place. Right now.” “Come on, not over a duck? It’s just food!” “It’s not food, Kirill!” Yulia turned, clutching a favourite jumper. “It’s respect. Your mum… she thinks I’m a nuisance in her perfect world. And you let her: ‘Mum meant well,’ ‘she’s a pro’… But who am I? Your wife—or just an intern in her kitchen?” “She didn’t mean to upset you; it’s just how she is. Years in a restaurant, she’s perfectionist to her core.” “Then she can have her perfection—alone, or with you. I just want a home where I have the right to burnt toast and salty soup, and nobody throws my efforts away while I’m showering.” “Where will you go?” Kirill tried to grab her hands. “It’s late, can’t we talk tomorrow?” “No. If I stay, tomorrow it’ll be my coffee done wrong. I’m done, Kirill. Either we look for a flat tomorrow—anywhere—or… or I don’t know.” “You know we can’t afford it,” he said, voice tight. “Six more months and we’ll have a real deposit. Why throw it away on rent now? Just put up with it.” Yulia looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. In his eyes, there was no understanding of her pain—just calculation, and a desire for the conflict to vanish. “Six months? After six more months, there’ll be nothing left of me. I’m turning into a ghost here.” She quickly packed her essentials, zipped the case with difficulty, and headed for the hall. Rimma Markovna stood in the corridor, arms folded. Her face wore a look of cold readiness. “A dramatic exit? The third act of ‘Unrecognised Kitchen Talent’?” “No, Rimma Markovna,” Yulia replied, pulling on her shoes. “This is the finale. You win. The kitchen is all yours. You can throw out my spices too, they’re clearly not up to standard.” “Yulia, stop!” Kirill hurried after her. “Mum, say something!” “What is there to say?” Rimma Markovna shrugged. “If a girl is willing to break up over a saucepan, that’s the kind of family you had. At her age, I could admit my mistakes and learn from elders. But everyone’s proud nowadays… all individuals…” Yulia didn’t listen. She picked up her bag and left. The cold night air after the kitchen heat felt like a blessing. Behind her, she heard muffled voices—Kirill arguing with his mother, her answering in her “teacherly” tone. *** For a week, Yulia stayed with her parents. They, of course, realised, but tried not to pry. Her mother just sighed and piled her plate with homely pancakes—not “confit,” not “demi-glace,” just plain, tasty food. Kirill called every day. At first angry, then pleading, finally promising to talk to his mum “seriously.” On the fifth day, he arrived. “Yulia, come home.” He looked haggard—dark circles under his eyes, rumpled shirt. “Mum… she’s ill.” Yulia froze mid-sip. “What happened? Her blood pressure again?” “No,” Kirill sat at the table, hiding his face. “Some nasty virus. Her fever was almost forty for days. Now she just sleeps… but Yulia, she’s lost her sense of taste, completely. She says everything’s like chewing paper. No smell either. For her… you know what it means. Yesterday, she smashed her favourite spice jar—couldn’t smell a thing. Sat on the floor and cried. I’ve never ever seen her cry, Yulia.” Bitterness in Yulia’s chest melted a little. She remembered how every morning Rimma Markovna’s ritual started—grinding coffee, inhaling deeply, as if it was oxygen, then she could begin the day. For someone whose life was built on flavour, scent, nuance, losing that… it’s like a painter going blind. “Did she call a doctor?” Yulia asked quietly. “She did. Neurology or something. Could come back in a week, a year… or never. She’s in her room, won’t come out. Says if she can’t taste, then she no longer exists.” Yulia looked at the window, snow swirling in the lamplight. She pictured Rimma Markovna—culinary battle-axe—now sitting in her perfect kitchen, unable to smell or taste a thing. It was truly frightening. “Yulia, I’m not asking you to come back for me,” Kirill said. “But help her. She can’t cook. Yesterday she tried to make soup—so salty I couldn’t eat it, and she didn’t even notice until I tried it. She’s terrified.” “What can I do?” Yulia replied with a bitter smile. “I’m hopeless—she never let me near the stove.” “You’re her only hope. She wouldn’t tell you, her pride won’t let her. But I saw her looking at your empty fridge shelf.” The next day, Yulia went back—not because she’d forgiven, but because she felt a strange, almost kindred sense of duty. Rimma Markovna was part of her world, thorny as she was. The flat smelled different. No scent of baking or stewing veg—just dust and… sadness. Yulia found her mother-in-law at the kitchen table, looking ten years older, coffee untouched in front of her. “Hello, Rimma Markovna,” Yulia said softly. Her mother-in-law jumped, looking up. “Come to gloat? Go on, fry your shoe-leather, I wouldn’t be able to tell fillet steak from soggy toast now.” Yulia put her bag down, walked over, and saw how those hands—once so deft—trembled. “I’m not here for that. I’m here to cook.” “Why?” Rimma Markovna turned away. “I can’t feel anything. The world’s gone grey. Like someone switched off the colour and sound. I chew bread, it’s just cotton wool. I drink coffee, it’s just hot water. Why waste food?” Yulia exhaled, took off her coat. “Because I’ll be your taste buds. And your nose. You tell me what to do, I’ll do the tasting.” Rimma Markovna let out a bitter laugh. “You? You can’t tell thyme from lemon balm.” “Then teach me. You’re the professional. Or have you given up?” Her mother-in-law was silent a long while, then looked at Yulia. For a second, that old spark flickered—prideful, but alive. “You still can’t hold a knife. You’ll cut yourself the first minute.” “Then you’ll put the plasters on. We’ve got beef, right? Shall we do beef bourguignon?” Rimma Markovna slowly stood, walked to the stove, and touched the cold hob. “You need the perfect sear. Brown, not burnt. You’ll boil it.” “Watch me then,” Yulia took out the meat. “Sit here. And direct it. But no insults, okay? I’m an apprentice, not your punch bag.” The lesson began: chopping, searing, simmering. Rimma Markovna’s nose twitched by habit, but her face fell—no scent. “Wine now,” she ordered. “A little in the pan, reduce the alcohol.” Yulia poured. The kitchen filled with a rich, tangy aroma. “How does it smell?” Rimma asked quietly. Yulia froze, sniffed. “Like… the end of summer. Rain in the woods. Tart, but sweet underneath.” Her mother-in-law closed her eyes. “Tannins,” she whispered. “Good. Add a pinch of sugar for balance.” “And now?” Yulia tasted the sauce. “It’s good. But something’s missing. A bit more bite…” “Mustard. Just a dab of Dijon.” Yulia added, then took another taste—eyes widening. “Wow… That’s it! How do you know? You didn’t even try it!” For the first time in ages, her mother-in-law smiled, just a hint. “Memory, my dear. Taste isn’t only in the mouth. I’ve got hundreds of volumes in my head.” All evening, they cooked. When Kirill came home, a steaming pot greeted him. “Wow! Smells amazing! Mum, are you better?” Rimma Markovna, tired but peaceful, sat in her chair. “No, Kirill. Yulia cooked. I just nagged her.” Kirill stared at his wife. Yulia winked at him. “Come eat—don’t even try to say it’s salty. We counted every grain.” Partway through, Rimma Markovna spoke, not looking up. “Yulia… Do you know why I threw away your duck?” Yulia paused. “Why?” “It was fine. Not a masterpiece, but decent.” “Then why?” Her mother-in-law looked up, and in her eyes Yulia saw something she never expected—fear. Ordinary, human fear. “Because if you’d done it perfectly, I’d be useless. Gone. My son—he has his own family now. And me, I’m a chef. If I’m not cooking, I’m nothing. I’m just a lonely old woman taking up space. I had to prove you needed me. That this was still my kingdom.” Yulia put her plate down. She’d never thought of Rimma Markovna like that—a fortress, a tyrant… But really—just a frightened woman, clinging to her kitchen as a lifeline. “You’ll never be not needed, Rimma Markovna,” Yulia said gently. “Who else will teach me to hold a knife? I know nothing about cooking.” Her mother-in-law sniffed, straightened up. “Quite right. Your hand’s still like a claw. Tomorrow we’re learning custard. God forbid you use thickener again—I’ll throw you out.” Yulia laughed. “Deal. But if I get it right, you owe me your honey cake recipe.” “We’ll see,” Rimma Markovna grumbled, but covered Yulia’s hand with her own, just for a second. My House, My Kitchen: When Your Mother-in-Law’s Need for Control Turns Your Home into a Battleground—and What Happens When Life Takes Away Her Only Power

I’m 60 and soon to be 61 — it’s not a milestone birthday like 70 or 80, but it matters to me. I want to celebrate it—not with a last-minute cake or a rushed lunch, but with a real, well-organised party: dinner, beautifully set tables, decorated chairs, waiters, soft music. Something that makes me feel alive, appreciated, grateful for everything I’ve come through. The problem is, my children don’t agree. I have two grown sons, both living with me along with their partners and children. The house is always full: noise, TV, children running, conversations, arguments. I love them, of course… but I never have a quiet moment. I’m never alone. Never. I cover most of the expenses, with my pension, the money my husband left me, and a small business I still run. I pay the bills, grocery shop, deal with repairs, and ‘temporary’ help that’s become permanent. I never minded helping. What troubles me is that now, they decide everything for me. When I said I wanted to host a celebration, they told me it was a waste of money. At my age, there’s no point spending on parties, food, and waiters, they said. It would be better to give them the money—for investments, for needs, for ‘something useful.’ They spoke to me as if I was being irresponsible with my own money. I explained that I’m not borrowing, and I’ve thought about this for months. But they didn’t listen. And one of them said, ‘Mum, parties aren’t for you anymore.’ That hurt more than I expected. I started to think about things I never dared to say aloud. That sometimes I want to be alone in my own home. That I miss waking up to silence. That I long to come home to a quiet living room. That I want to make decisions without justifying myself. I’ve even considered telling them to find their own place—not out of spite, but because I feel I’ve done my part. But then guilt eats at me. I’m scared to sound selfish. I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to throw anyone out for a night. I just want to know if I’m wrong to want to celebrate. To want silence sometimes. To want my money used for me, too. I’m writing because I don’t know what to do—stand my ground, or give in again. Should I have my party, even if they don’t approve? Am I wrong for wanting to celebrate my birthday my way, and for wanting my home and my money not to be a ‘family decision’?