“Blame Yourself, Mum”
Emma was frying burgers when the doorbell chimed. She wiped her hands on her tea towel and stepped out of the kitchen to answer it.
“Mum, it’s for me,” her daughter’s voice stopped her halfway. “I’ll get it.”
“Alright. I didn’t know—”
“What are you just standing there for? Go back to your burgers,” her daughter snapped, shooting her an irritated glance from the doorway.
“Why ‘your’ burgers? I bought the mince from Waitrose—”
“Mum, just shut the door,” her daughter rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve just said so.” Emma retreated to the kitchen, pulling the door halfway behind her. She turned off the hob, hesitated, then untied her apron and walked back out.
In the hall, her daughter was shrugging on her jacket. Beside her stood Liam, her boyfriend, gazing at her like she’d hung the moon.
“Hello, Liam. Going somewhere? Why not stay for dinner?”
“Hello,” Liam smiled politely, glancing at Sophie for approval.
“We’re in a rush,” Sophie said without so much as looking at her mother.
“Are you sure? Everything’s ready,” Emma tried again. Liam wavered.
“No!” Sophie cut in sharply. “Let’s go.” She looped her arm through Liam’s and yanked the door open. “Mum, close up behind us?”
Emma stepped forward but left the door just ajar, catching their conversation on the landing.
“Why’d you talk to her like that? Smells amazing—I wouldn’t say no to a burger.”
“Ugh, let’s just grab something at Nando’s. I’m sick of her cooking,” Sophie muttered.
“Sick of it? I’d eat your mum’s burgers every day if I could,” Liam chuckled.
Whatever Sophie said next was lost as their voices faded down the stairwell. Emma shut the door properly and wandered into the living room, where her husband, David, was glued to the telly.
“David, dinner’s ready while it’s hot.”
“Hm? Right, then.” He heaved himself off the sofa and ambled past her to the kitchen, slumping into his chair. “What’s on offer?”
“Burgers, rice, salad,” Emma said, lifting the pan lid.
“How many times do I have to say? I don’t eat fried food anymore,” David grumbled.
“I added a splash of water—they’re practically steamed.” She froze, lid in hand.
“Fine. But last time.”
“At our age, starving yourself’s daft,” Emma remarked, sliding a plate in front of him.
“‘Our age’? I’m fifty-seven, woman. For a man, that’s peak wisdom and vitality.” He speared a burger, biting off half.
“Honestly, have you two conspired against me? Sophie bolts off, you’re acting like a diva. Maybe I’ll just stop cooking—see how you like takeaway every night. Think Pret’s healthier, do you?”
“Don’t, then. Could do you good to shed a few pounds. Soon you won’t fit through the door.” He polished off the first burger and stabbed the second.
“Oh, so I’m fat now? I’ve been racking my brains—wondered why you’ve been prancing about in new jeans, a leather jacket, even a baseball cap. Shaving your head to hide the bald patch. Who’s it for, eh? Not me, clearly. Got someone skinnier to impress?”
“Let a man eat in peace.” David scooped up rice but dropped his fork back onto the plate. “Pass the ketchup.”
Emma wrenched the bottle from the fridge, slammed it down, and stalked out. Her own dinner sat untouched.
She locked herself in Sophie’s room, sinking onto the bed. Tears pricked her eyes.
“Cooking, cleaning, bending over backwards—for what? No thanks. David’s midlife-crisising, Sophie treats me like hired help. Just because I’m retired, they think they can walk all over me. I’d still be working if they hadn’t made redundancies. Experience means nothing now—just chuck it out for fresh blood. But what do they know?”
She swiped at her cheeks. “Up before dawn to make breakfast, never a moment to sit. My own fault—spoilt them rotten. Now they’ve made themselves right at home on my back.”
She’d always thought they were a decent family. Not perfect, but no worse than anyone else’s. Sophie at uni, doing well. David bringing in the bacon, no bad habits. Tidy house, good food. What more did he want?
Emma studied herself in the mirror. “Alright, I’ve filled out a bit—but I’m not fat. Round cheeks hide the wrinkles. Always loved my food. Cook a mean roast, too. Turns out they couldn’t care less. When I worked, I styled my hair, wore heels. Now? Hair clip and slippers—who’s faffing about glamorous while hoovering? Still… maybe drop a stone. Touch up the roots.” She flopped back onto the bed, thinking.
Next morning, Emma didn’t leap up at dawn. She burrowed deeper under the duvet. “I’m retired. I’ve earned a lie-in. Let them sort their own breakfast.”
The alarm blared. She fake-snoozed, facing the wall.
“You ill?” David’s voice held zero concern.
“Mmm,” she muffled into the pillow.
“Mum? You okay?” Sophie hovered in the doorway.
“Bit poorly. Help yourselves.”
Sophie huffed and clattered about the kitchen. Soon, the kettle whistled, the fridge door thumped, muffled voices drifted through. Emma stayed put, doubling down on her performance.
David reappeared, reeking of expensive aftershave—the one she’d bought him. Then, silence. They’d both left.
Emma tossed the duvet aside an hour later, stretched, and padded to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs, crumbs everywhere. She nearly tidied—then stopped. “I’m not their maid.”
After a shower, she rang her old schoolmate, Linda.
“Emma! Thought you’d forgotten me! Not tired of retirement yet?”
Emma fibbed about missing her, needing a change, overdue visits to her parents’ grave—could she crash for a bit?
“Course! When?”
“Train’s in an hour.”
“Right—off to bake a pie!”
Emma packed a light bag, scribbled a note (“Gone to Linda’s. Back whenever.”), and hesitated on the way to the station. “Let them manage without me. See how they like it. But… is this too much?”
At the ticket counter, she bargained: “If there’s no seats, I’ll go home.” But there were. The queue for the coach stretched ahead. She joined it, sighing.
Linda greeted her with a bear hug. Over tea and warm pie, the truth spilled out.
“Good on you. Let ’em sweat. Turn your phone off.”
“Too harsh?”
“Perfect. Tomorrow—salon. New ’do. My mate Val works there. Useless at maths, but now she’s booked weeks ahead. Then shopping. We’ll make you lethal. Watch David eat his heart out.”
That night, Emma barely slept. “Are they even bothered?”
Val worked magic—highlights, brow tint, a sleek cut. Linda insisted on makeup. Exhausted, Emma gave in.
Staring at the mirror, she barely recognised herself. Youthful. Polished. Val tried booking her a manicure.
“No more today—I’m wiped!”
“Eight a.m. sharp tomorrow,” Val warned.
Outside, Linda whistled. “Look at you! Now—shopping.”
“Another time?”
“Not in those frumpy rags! Beauty’s pain.”
Emma left with tailored trousers, a blouse, a caramel cardigan—and bags of loot: a dress, jacket, heels. She felt lighter, sharper. Long overdue.
Back at Linda’s, a broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair approached.
“Lookin’ sharp, ladies,” he grinned, eyeing Emma. “You haven’t aged a day.”
“I—” Emma blinked at Linda.
“Paul Jenkins! From school!”
“Paul?” The lanky, spotty teen was now all silver fox.
“Guilty,” he beamed.
Linda dragged them inside for wine and nostalgia. Emma flushed—from the drink or Paul’s attention?
Later, Linda whispered, “He’s still smitten.”
“Don’t be daft. Decades ago!”
“That glow says otherwise,” Linda winked. “He’s divorced. Army career—medically discharged. Got shot overseas. Wife bailed during rehab. Fought his way back. Walks with a limp now, but… give him a chance.”
“I’m married!”
But the next day, Emma’s resolve wavered. Linda bulldozed: “One week. Let ’em stew. Paul’s got theatreThe moment Emma stepped back into her own kitchen a week later—greeted by David’s sheepish apologies, Sophie’s wide-eyed admiration, and the lingering scent of burnt toast—she realised that sometimes, walking away is the only way to remind everyone why they wanted you to stay in the first place.
