19 July
I’m still hearing the endless “When will dinner be ready?” echo through the cramped kitchen. “When you cook it, then it’ll be ready,” I mutter, half‑laughing, half‑exasperated. Margaret, my mother‑in‑law, sits on the edge of the sofa, spectacles askew, and says, “Nick, does your wife expect me to stand at the stove? Will she just lie there?” I ignore her, grab a few things and slip out into the hallway, Margaret trailing behind.
“What’s this about?” she hisses. “Where are you off to?”
“On holiday,” I answer, smiling weakly. “Goodbye.”
I set my heavy duffel bags down with a sigh of relief. “I’m home!”
A low mumble drifts from the bedroom, and the source appears—a man in his early forties, perhaps a bit younger, perhaps a bit older, dressed in a tracksuit and slippers.
“Natalie, why are you shouting? This isn’t the village. Behave yourself,” he snaps.
“Honestly, you could have met me—my pay’s finally come through, and we need groceries,” I say.
He lets out a dramatic sigh. “Lord! What groceries?”
He turns and walks back into the bedroom, and I exhale heavily. I’m fed up.
I juggle two jobs just to keep the house running, while Nick, buoyed by his mother’s encouragement, has been churning out a “mythic” manuscript for the past year. The first draft was dismissed because, according to everyone, “no one understands art.”
I strip off my coat, haul the bags to the kitchen and note that tomorrow marks the first day of my leave. I intend to clean the flat from top to bottom—wash, launder, iron, then rearrange everything—under Margaret’s watchful eye. Exhaustion hangs over me like a wet blanket.
Eleanor, the neighbour who’s always popping in, peeks into the kitchen.
“Natalie, why are you standing around? Planning to feed the husband? He’s been at work all day and now has to wait!”
“Did he earn much?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
I can’t even trace how the question slipped out. For a long time I admired the fledgling writer Nick, imagining the fame he’d claim. The mere glance from Margaret made me tremble; I tried to please her at every turn, feeling guilty because while I was on maternity leave it was she who kept the family afloat.
Eleanor, about to leave, spins sharply.
“What did you say?”
“I asked if he earned much. People usually bring money home when they work.”
“How dare you! Nick has been plotting the next chapter all day! How could you possibly understand what it means to work with your head?”
She storms out. I pause, wondering why I’m even here. Our son, Jacob, has been making a racket in his grandparents’ garden for weeks—running, shouting, a constant din that hampers Nick’s concentration on his “next masterpiece,” which, frankly, feels more like rubbish than art.
I collect the groceries from the fridge, now stuffing them into a large tote. My salary and holiday pay are finally in the bank; I’ll bring home tasty food and buy a little present for Jacob on the way.
I step into the corridor, set the bag down, and reach for something else. Nick, eyes glued to the television, asks again, “When will dinner be ready?”
“Whenever you cook it,” I answer.
Margaret, still perched with her glasses, repeats, “Nick, does your wife want me at the stove? Will she just lie there?”
I, ignoring her, pick up a few items and head back down the stairs, eager to hail a taxi. Sixty miles to the coast? One time won’t hurt.
Andrew, our teenage son, is already in bed when I arrive at my parents’ house. He wakes, darts to me, and hugs me tightly. I hold him close and feel how much I’ve missed him.
Mother eyes me carefully.
“Something happened? Why did you leave Nick? Who will look after him?”
She’s always treated my husband‑in‑law with a cool distance. After the wedding they’d visit the family on weekends, but Margaret quickly put Nick in his place, making him work the garden or the yard from six in the morning. His desire for a quiet break disappeared.
“Enough, Mum! I’m off for a whole month,” I say, fed up.
She smiles, “Well, thank heavens you’ll finally rest and spend time with your boy.”
I lie down with Jacob’s son, staring at the moonlit ceiling, watching my little boy grow, before finally drifting off.
Morning brings a strange smell—baking. I stretch, feeling grateful, when Jacob appears with a grin.
“Grandma baked a whole tray of pies!”
After breakfast, I ask Mother what to do next.
“What, you’re already rested?” she teases.
“No, I’ve just got another job to do.”
“Go to the allotment. The cabbage’s overgrown, the cucumbers need weeding. I can’t keep up.”
On the third row of the garden, I realise I actually enjoy the work. The neat, weed‑free beds make me smile.
“Never seen anyone weed with such a happy face!” a voice calls.
It’s Evan, my old neighbour from when I was ten. He’d been my childhood crush—almost fifteen then, too old to be anything serious, but he’d share sweets and look after me. He left for the city, we lost touch, and now he’s back, freshly separated after a month.
He tells his mother he’s in town for a visit, and later that evening his mother invites us all over for a barbecue. We grill, we chat, and for a moment everything feels light.
Two weeks later, Mother sits beside me.
“Natalie, what are you thinking? Going back?”
“I don’t know, Mum. I have work, but no place to live.”
“Maybe rent something? Or stay here. We’ll find you a job. And what about Evan? Have you noticed how he looks at you?”
I laugh. “It’s just a echo from my childhood.”
She sighs, “Evan’s a good man, solid. He’s got a decent job in the city.”
I stare at her, bewildered.
“Mum, are you trying to set us up?”
She blushes, “What’s wrong with that? I see you two together and think it could be nice.”
I chuckle. Mother does love a good match.
Evan leaves for a week of work, and I find myself scolding myself for the idle time, feeling like a child in a nursery. Nick keeps texting, calling, trying to shame me for being ungrateful, for pulling me out of the village, for “abandoning” the flat and son. He even threatens to evict us.
The last few, Margaret calls, saying that if I don’t return immediately the pressure will be on her, and everything that happens will be on my conscience.
The days have quieted, oddly enough. It feels strange but welcome. One evening Evan drops by with a massive van, invites us all over again. Mother watches me with an odd look, and I feel a sudden surge of happiness at his presence, like I want to jump.
The grill sizzles when a car pulls up in front of the house. A young woman bolts out, runs straight to Evan.
“Darling, how long will you keep hiding from me? Let’s go to town.”
“Olivia, why are you here?”
I realize she’s Evan’s ex‑wife, an unnecessary intrusion now. She grabs Andrew’s hand, they head toward the house, but a taxi pulls up before they can get far.
Nick and his mother step out of the taxi, eyes narrowed.
“Look at her, strolling about, while her husband does nothing.”
“Why are you here?”
I press my lips together, finally seeing how unpleasant these people are.
“Rested? Get home quickly! A man has to work; she just loiters, doesn’t cook or clean!”
“Did the husband get a job?”
Margaret snaps, but Nick interjects, “You know I’m writing a book—this isn’t the same as lifting bricks in a factory.”
He goes on, “Nick… I’ve wanted to tell you for ages you’re a failure, you’ve done nothing for your family. No money, no lessons for the boy. You sit on our lap with your mother. I won’t come back. I’ll take everything you bought in the last ten years!”
I walk to the front door and find Evan standing there, smiling.
“Evening’s turning out oddly. You’ve handled it well.”
They watch as Nick and his mother argue with Olivia, flailing their arms.
I never stayed in the village. After Evan and I signed the papers, Andrew and I moved to the city, to a new life with a different man who urged me to change jobs—no more factory shifts. I now sit in an office, sorting papers. The pay is modest, but Evan is genuinely surprised.
“Your salary is yours—buttons and pins. The man should provide for the family.”
Nick also remarried, this time to Olivia. Now his mother‑in‑law supports two freeloaders while Natalie (me) hears that she convinced her son to abandon his book and work in a factory.
In the end, everything that happens seems to shift for the better. One thing breaks, another mends.
— Natalie.
