“Mother stays, you go,” said James, unbuttoning his coat and hanging it on the hallway hook.

Emily froze, a plate in her hand, standing in the middle of the kitchen. The tap was still running, water trickling into the sink, but she barely noticed. Had she heard him right?

“What did you say?” she asked without turning.

“Exactly what I said. I’ve made my decision. Mums moving in with us, and you… youll find somewhere else to stay.” James walked into the kitchen and sat at the table, his tone final.

Emily slowly placed the plate on the drying rack and turned off the tap. Her hands trembled.

“This is *my* flat, James. *I* bought it. *I* pay the mortgage.”

“*Our* flat. Were married.”

“Its in *my* name!” She turned to face him. “Have you lost your mind?”

James pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one right there in the kitchen, even though he knew how much she hated it.

“No. Ive just realised Mum cant live alone anymore. Her blood pressures bad, her heartshes eighty-two, Emily.”

“And what does that have to do with me? Fine, let her live here! But why should *I* be the one to leave?”

“Where else is she supposed to stay? My old room? She needs space, her own things.”

Emily bit back a scream. Over five years of marriage, her mother-in-law had made her life miserableconstant nitpicking, criticism, meddling in their relationship. And now James expected her to walk away from her own home?

“Your mother has a three-bedroom house in Chelsea!”

“The lifts broken, and the stairs are too much for her. Here, its ground floorclose to the clinic, shops, everything.”

“So youve decided everything without me?” Emily braced herself against the counter. “James, were *married*. These things are supposed to be discussed *together*.”

“You discuss things when theres something *to* discuss,” he said, tapping ash into a saucer. “This is obvious. My mothers ill. She needs care. Who else is going to look after her?”

“And whos supposed to look after *me*?” Emily sat across from him. “Do you even hear yourself? Youre throwing me out of my own home.”

“Im not *throwing* you out. Im asking you to stay somewhere elsejust for a while. Until Mum”

“Until she *dies*?” Emily finished coldly. “Just say it.”

“Dont be crude.”

“What else should I call it? Shes eighty-two. A year? Five? And Im supposed to rent somewhere, spend my own money?”

James stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the linoleum.

“Shes my *mother*! The woman who raised me alone after Dad died!”

“And that gives her the right to dictate our marriage?”

“Shes not dictating anything. She just *needs help*.”

Emily scoffed. Margaret didnt need helpshe wanted control. From day one, shed despised Emily, sabotaging their relationship with backhanded comments, surprise visits, rearranging their flat as if it were her own.

“Your mother *hates* me,” Emily said. “You know that.”

“She doesnt hate you. Shes just used to being the most important person in my life. Thats natural for a mother.”

“James, youre *forty*. When are you going to grow up?”

He stubbed out his cigarette and gave her a cold look.

“Ive grown up enough to care for my own mother. Seems you havent.”

“Im not against helping her! But not at the cost of our marriage! We could pay for carers, visit, take her to appointments”

“We wont be living together. Because *youre* leaving.”

The kitchen door creaked open. Margaret stood theretall, thin, her silver hair pulled into a tight bun. A faint smile played on her lips.

“James, dear, I heard voices. Are you two arguing?”

“No, Mum. Just discussing plans.”

Margarets eyes swept the kitchen, lingering on the ashtray.

“James, darling, how many times must I tell you? Smoking indoors is dreadful for your health.”

“Sorry, Mum. Wont happen again.”

Emily stared. A grown man, scolded like a child.

“And you, Emily dear,” Margaret said sweetly, “you look pale. Are you feeling unwell?”

“Im fine,” Emily said flatly.

“Good. At your age, you must take care. Thirty-seven isnt twenty, you know.”

Emily clenched her teeth. Margaret never missed a chance to remind her of her age, her childlessness, her unworthiness.

“Mum, why dont you rest?” James suggested. “You must be tired from the journey.”

“Yes, perhaps. James, would you show me where Ill be staying? My suitcase is rather heavy.”

“Of course, Mum.”

They left Emily alone. She listened as they moved through the flat, discussing where Margarets things would go, how to make her comfortable.

The suitcase was already here. This had been plannedwithout her.

Emily called her best friend.

“Claire? Its me. Can I come over? Yes, tonight. Ill explain later.”

She packed a bag. Margaret stood in the bedroom, surveying the space.

“That wardrobe should be moved,” she told James. “And these photostake them down.”

Emily looked at their wedding pictures on the wall.

“*Our* photos,” she said.

“I know, dear,” Margaret smiled. “But this is *my* room now. I must feel at home.”

“Where do *we* sleep?” Emily asked James.

“You said you were leaving,” he replied, avoiding her eyes.

Her hands shook as she zipped the bag.

“James, do you even realise what youre doing?”

“What I *have* to do.”

“And what about me? Where do *I* go?”

“Youve got friends. Family.”

“I have a *husband*. Or at least, I *did*.”

Margaret sighed, sitting on the bed. “Oh, my back aches. James, fetch me a cushion, would you?”

“Of course, Mum.”

Emily grabbed her bag and headed for the door. James followed.

“Emily, waitthis isnt forever.”

“Isnt it?”

“I dont know. Until Mums better.”

“Your mother isnt *ill*, James. Shes healthier than both of us. She just enjoys controlling you.”

“Dont talk about her like that.”

“How *should* I talk? Shes tearing us apart! Cant you see that?”

“Mum wants whats best.”

“For *who*? You? Or *her*?”

James looked away. Emily knew it was hopeless.

“Fine. Call me when you decide who matters moreyour wife or your mother.”

She grabbed her coat. At the door, she turned.

“And James? If I walk out now, Im not coming back. Think carefully.”

“Emily, dont be dramatic”

“This isnt drama. Its a choice.”

The door slammed.

She stayed at Claires that night, pouring out the story.

“Hes *insane*!” Claire fumed. “Kicking you out for *Mummy*?”

“He didnt *kick* me out. He *asked* me to leave.”

“Whats the difference? Hes humiliating you! Ignoring your rights!”

“Maybe I should just endure it?”

“Endure *what*? Being pushed out of your own home? Wake up! That woman will *never* leave. Shes won.”

Claire was right. Margaret had always wanted her son back under her thumb. Now she had him.

“What do I do?”

“Fight. Or walk away.”

“And if he chooses her?”

“Then he never truly loved you.”

James called the next morning.

“How are you? Where did you stay?”

“Claires. Hows *Mum*?”

“Fine. Though she couldnt find her medicine. Wheres the first-aid kit?”

“Bathroom, above the washing machine.”

“Right. Listen, maybe you could come over tonight? Mum wants to talkwork things out.”

Emily laughed. “*Work what out*? Shes in *our* bed! Im *here*! Whats there to discuss?”

“Maybe you could sleep on the sofa? Just temporarily?”

“On the *sofa*? In *my own flat*?”

“Its not forever”

“No. Im not coming.”

Silence. Then:

“What do *you* suggest?”

“I suggested it yesterday. Your mother goes *home*.”

“Thats impossible.”

“Then were done talking.”

She hung up