Years ago, in a quiet corner of London, there lived a woman named Catherine. She shared a comfortable flat with her husband, Edward, until one day, his mother, Margaret, called with a demand.
“Darling, has Edward told you yet?” Margaret began briskly. “Well be hosting twenty guests for my daughters thirtieth! Well need to start preparations the evening before. Ill arrive by six.”
“Evening?” Catherine frowned. “No, we never agreed to this.”
“Now, dont interrupt,” Margaret chided. “Edward already has the shopping listhes promised to fetch everything.”
Edward had always bent over backward for his elder sister, Beatrice. By thirty, shed been twice married and twice divorcednever her fault, of course. Their mother had drilled into him since childhood: “Your sister needs you.” And so, Edward obligedwhether paying her rent when she was “between jobs,” fixing her leased flat, or hauling her belongings after yet another failed marriage.
Then he married Catherine.
At first, she endured it. But when Beatrice begged to borrow their car for the fifth time that year”just for a few days”Catherine had finally had enough.
“Edward, enough,” she said firmly. “We need the car this weekend. We had plans.”
“Cant you manage without it?”
“No. My parents have two crates of apples from their garden. I told youwe were meant to collect them.”
“Well I vaguely recall, but Beatrice is in a bind.”
“Again? What sort of bind?”
“Not sure,” Edward muttered, “but she needs it more.”
“No, Edward. Not this time. Either you say no, or you buy me my own car. Im tired of taking the Tube while my husband chauffeurs his sister.”
For once, Edward hesitated. He nearly called Beatrice to refuseuntil Margaret intervened.
“Are you really choosing your wife over your sister? She has no one else!”
And so, Edward helped, despite Catherines protests. Once, they didnt speak for days until he snapped, “Why the silent treatment? Are you cross?”
“Brilliant deduction,” Catherine laughed bitterly. “Three days to notice?”
“Honestly, I dont see the issue!”
“Really? Your sister commandeered you for an entire weekend because she fancied a trip to a friends cottage. I thought you were just dropping her offinstead, you stayed two days. Does that not bother you?”
“Whats the fuss? We had a drink. Her ex was thereperfectly civil. Was I meant to leave like a bore?”
“You couldve called.”
“So could you.”
“I did! Your phone was off. Imagine my worrymy husband vanishes, and it turns out he simply fancied a break from me.”
“Dont be dramatic,” Edward scoffed as his phone rang. He stepped onto the balconyknowing Catherine wouldnt appreciate another call from Beatrice.
“Hello, brother!” Beatrice trilled. “My thirtieth is in two weeks! You grasp the significance, yes?”
Edward glanced warily at Catherine, who was ladling soup.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“Oh, you know me too well!” Beatrice laughed. “Id like to celebrate at your flat! Yours is spaciousmines tiny, and the landladys a terror. Restaurants are so dear.”
“What about a pub? Ill chip in.”
“Are you mad? Its my thirtieth! Why should I pay for a venue when youve a perfectly good home? And youll be contributing anywayits not as if Im rolling in it.”
“Let me discuss it with Catherine first. Its her home too.”
“Too late!” Beatrice cut in. “Ive already told everyone its at yours. Clear the flat for the day, wont you? Mums handling the menu.”
As Edward rubbed his temples, his phone buzzed againa text from Margaret:
“Beatrice gave me the menu. Attached is the shopping list. Tell Catherine to assist. She ought to help with the cooking, too.”
Meanwhile, Catherine, oblivious, curled up with her phone to watch her favourite programme. When Edward entered, avoiding her gaze, she knew.
“What now?” she asked calmly, pausing the show.
“Darling Beatrices thirtieth is coming up. Its rather a milestone. Shed like to celebrate here.”
Catherine lifted her head. “Then let her. Whos stopping her?”
Edward scratched his neck. “Well she wants it at ours.”
“Here? You agreed?”
“I said Id ask you! But Beatrice has already invited everyone. Mums planning the menu”
Catherine inhaled sharply. “Edward. Are you a grown man or just your sisters errand boy?”
“Dont start.”
“Im starting? No one even asked me! This is my home, not a revolving door for your family. Beatrice plans a party in my flat, expects me to cook, and Im just meant to comply?”
Just then, her phone rang.
“Ah, the cherry on top,” she muttered. “Your mother.”
“Catherine, has Edward told you?” Margaret blustered. “Twenty guests! Well start cooking the evening before. Ill arrive by six.”
“Evening? No, that wasnt the arrangement.”
“Listen. Edward has the shopping list. Hell handle it.”
“Suppose he does. Whos paying?”
“Edwards covering it,” Margaret clipped.
“So my flat becomes a banquet hall, and we foot the bill? Beatrice isnt family enough to contribute?”
“Dont be petty! Its one evening. Surely you can chop a few vegetables!”
“Margaret,” Catherine interrupted, “I just learned of this. I never consented.”
“Enough of this my flat nonsense! Youre marriedwhats yours is his!”
“Funny. If this were Edwards flat, youd sing a different tune.”
“Dont be absurd. The shopping must be done by Friday.” Margaret hung up.
“What was that?” Catherine asked, hearing the dial tone.
“Stop playing the victim!” Edward finally snapped. “Youve been told youre wrong. Admit it and drop the theatrics.”
Stunned, Catherine stood, fetched a suitcase, and began packing Edwards clothes in silence.
Meanwhile, Edward, triumphant, grabbed a beer and flopped before the telly, certain shed cool off by supper.
Half an hour later, Catherine stood in the hallway, a suitcase at her feet.
Edward frowned. “Whats this? A performance?”
“No performance,” she said coolly. “This is the end. I wont play second fiddle in my own life, a servant in my own home. If you wish to be the dutiful son and brothergo. Move back with your mother. Im sure shell gladly host you.”
“Youre serious? I wont come back.”
“Precisely. Ive tolerated enough. If in three years youve not learned respect, it wont change.”
“Catherineyou cant throw this all away!”
“Its already broken.”
Edward scoffed. “Fine! Good luck finding someone better!”
“If better means a man who respects meIll manage.”
He grabbed the suitcase. “Youll regret this!”
“If regret means peace in my own homeIll take it.”
As Edward shoved the suitcase into a cab, Catherine watched, exhaling.
Months passed. The divorce was ugly. Edward painted Catherine as greedy, especially over the car theyd bought jointly.
“Your Honour, I paid for itits in my name!” he insisted.
Catherine produced bank statements, receipts, even the deposit agreement shed signed.
“I claim only whats fair,” she said. The court sided with her.
Edward fumed. The car was “his”now hed have to sell it. At home, Margaret berated him.
“You fool! You let her take everything!”
Meanwhile, Catherine slept soundly for the first time in years. She was young yetplenty of decent men existed. The trick was knowing the difference.
