The Evening Obligation
Friday evening arrived, feeling like a sodden pair of socks left out in a Wolverhampton October. Outside, the rain stubbornly pattered on, grey as a lifetime of unswept chimneys, while the flat was filled with the aroma of frying onions and a robust mug of Yorkshire Tea brewing on the counter. Olivia, flopped back against the sofa, finally felt her body begin to unclench after a week spent hunched over her laptop. Working remotely as a copywriter was a test at the best of times, and lately, her clients seemed to have developed a taste for endless revisions. The deadlines came at her like the Northern line at rush hour, and her eyeballs refused to focus on anything but the promise of the weekend.
So, when Will settled himself next to her, TV remote in one hand and a dash of optimism in the other, she dared to hope she might actually unwind tonight. Theyd put off watching their favourite detective show for two weeks, and the opening credits had only just begun to roll when it happened.
Shall we? Will nodded at her, a look of gentle anticipation in his eyes.
Lets, Olivia replied, tugging the fleece blanket closer and cradling a mug. But no distractions, alright? Phones off, no
She didnt even get to finish the no. The telly interrupted her with an all-too-familiar chime and a vivid pop-up: Incoming video call from Fiona Harris. The gentle, insistent tone of StarScreens voice assistant chimed in: Caller is waiting.
Olivias insides contracted. Will froze, glaring at the remote as though it had just developed a taste for violence.
Will, turn it off! she whispered, grabbing his sleeve in panic.
I cant! he muttered grimly. She can see were online. If we dont pick up, well be explaining ourselves all evening. You know what shes like.
His hesitant fingers hovered over the Accept button, and in a moment, the screen split: on one side, the detective shows credits kept rolling; on the other, Fiona Harriss cheerful, not-to-be-ignored face blossomed into their living room.
Hello, Mum Will started, but was instantly overrun.
Oh, I see youre ready for some telly! Wonderful! Fionas voice was bright with triumph, as though shed just cracked the code to a close-held family vault. I was hoping we could start a new feature tonightSilent Cinema Classics. Its educational, entertaining, and broadens the mind! Honestly, what could be better on a rainy Friday?
Olivia squeezed her eyes shut. Her throat constricted around a lump, the kind they dont warn you about in romance novels. When she opened her eyes, Will was already crumpling in apology, desperately seeking an escape from the maternal grip.
Mum, we were actually planning to watch
Nonsense, Will, youve got the whole evening to yourselves! Fiona waved away his weak protest. Its just an hour and a half. Ive chosen Battleship Potemkin. Its a classic! Educated folk simply must see it.
Olivia could take no more. She got up.
Sorry, Mrs Harris, bit of a headache, she managed, feigning casualness. I might lie down for a bit.
She retreated to the bedroom and stretched out, eyes fixed fiercely on the ceiling. The sound of Fionas impassioned monologue about cinema history, and Wills defeated mumbling, bled through the door.
How in the Queens name had they ended up here?
It all started three months earlier, in July. Olivia and Will had just returned from a seaside holiday in Devon, happily bronzed and salty, to find a large box on their doorstep stamped StarScreen Premium. A handwritten card perched atop it: Dearest family, a years cultural subscription for you may your evenings be filled with beauty and wisdom! Love, Mum (Fiona Harris).
Olivias reaction, appropriately British, was confusion. Their standard Freeview worked just fine for news and the odd quiz show. But Will was delighted.
Mums gone all out! This mustve cost her a fortune. They say theres great films, documentaries Maybe well finally watch something clever?
Olivia shrugged. A gifts a gift. They set it up, browsed the catalogue, dipped a toe into a few nature docs but, after work, their collective energy peaked at Bake Off reruns and silly videos.
Trouble arrived the next Tuesday, precisely at 8 p.m., as they were polishing off their dinner. The call was old-school this time: Fiona, on the phone.
Will, darling, are you set up?
For what, Mum?
The telly! Its Tuesday. Eight oclock, Imperial channelThe Grand Duchess starts tonight. I thought we could watch together, discuss after. Ive even checked the listings and all.
Will gave Olivia a deer-in-headlights look.
Mum, we didnt know we had
But I got you the subscription for this! Fiona sounded genuinely wounded. Weve not been seeing much of each other since you moved We can at least connect through the telly, cant we?
Fiona didnt live far, but post-retirement, shed been lonely since Mr Harriss passing five years back. Will always felt guilty about not visiting morework and, truth be told, Olivias less-than-eager attitude toward regular in-law Sundays meant those trips were scarce.
Mum, maybe next time? Will faltered.
Nonsense, Fiona was already in full swing. Switch over now. Ill call you on StarScreenoh, its all terribly modern. Itll be like going to the cinema, but in our own homes!
Reluctantly, Will fired up the telly. Minutes later, Fionas lounge materialised: she sat, knitting in hand and a mug of tea steaming before her.
Wonderful! she beamed. Were all ready. Olivia, are you watching too?
Of course, Olivia grimaced, settling herself with the air of someone about to undergo minor surgery.
The show was spectacularly slow. Mid-twentieth-century period drama, velvet gowns, discussions on duty and dignitylike reading Jane Austen fanfiction in real time. Olivia barely stifled yawns from the tenth minute. But the worst, the absolute crowning misery, were Fionas running commentaries.
Notice the costumes? she gasped as a character swished by. All hand-stitched, each bead individually sewnsimply exquisite craftsmanship.
Yup, very beady, Mum, Will offered.
Ten minutes later: Did you catch that line? Such depth! Olivia, you got that, didnt you?
Olivia nodded through clenched teeth, having lost the plot somewhere around act two. She was already scrolling her phone, secretly dreaming of an early blackout.
Afterwards, Fiona was in raptures.
Wasnt that sublime? So, Tuesdays and Thursdays, eight oclocklets watch together. Ill send you a programme for the month, so you can prepare. Oh, and SundaysI found a documentary series on the ocean: Mysteries of the Deep. You like nature, dont you?
Olivias rage was only barely contained.
Mrs Harris, its lovely, but were not always available
Dont be silly, Livvy! Its just a couple of nights a week. Young people these days are glued to their phones, but this is culture! Fiona cut her off, absolutely certain of being helpful.
After that, Olivia didnt speak to Will for half an hour, slamming bowls while washing up.
Olivia, please, dont be crossshes just lonely. It means a lot to her.
And what about what means a lot to me? I work all day and now, every evening, Im a captive audience for Mrs Harriss lectures on Regency beadwork? Fabulous.
Its only a couple hours
A couple hours that used to be mine! Olivia snapped. Do you get it, Will? Its not a gift, its a loan. She paid for the thing, but now shes collecting interest in hours of our life.
Will sighed, caught in the classic tug-of-war between family devotion and marital harmony.
She just wants to connect, Liv. Look, at least shes not dropping in every weekend or phoning with endless advice.
There was a point. Death by video-streaming was, perhaps, less traumatic than death by doorstep arrival.
And so the new weeknight ritual began. Fiona curated their viewing schedule: period dramas, stately-home intrigues, documentaries about the Amazon, and overwrought tales of arctic foxes. The production values were high, but Olivias enthusiasm sank ever lower. Every calendar reminder for Tuesday and Thursday became a cue for gloom, not for culture.
She even tried the classic sick note: Ive got a migraine tonight, Mrs Harris, I just cant Fiona fussed, but insisted Will keep the stream on, dear, for ambience. Sabotage attempt: failed.
Work-overload plea? Im drowning in deadlines, honestlyBut you work from home, dear, just put it on in the background! There was no escape. And with StarScreens helpful Online Now feature, Fiona couldlike a grandmotherly Alexasee when their TV was on. Dodging the calls meant fielding mobile phone interrogations: Will, sweetheart, whys the telly off? Are you alright? Youre not coming down with something?
It was like living in a low-stakes Orwellian family drama.
Relief came only from venting to her gym buddy, Margaret, who lived upstairs: lively, blunt, with a wicked sense of humour that made her twenty years Olivias senior in age, but not in spirit.
You know what Mrs Harris said? Sundays now Cultural Sunday. Shes adding a third weekly show Olivia moaned in despair.
Margaret whistled. Shes basically privatised your weeknights. You need sabotagestart fake-booking yoga, or claim youve taken up French lessons.
Doesnt work. She just calls Will instead. If I lie low, she tells him to turn the TV on for atmosphere.
The relentless obligation sapped Olivias patience and left her picking fights with Will over trivialities, like leaving the remote in the wrong place or failing to rinse out a cup. Will, for his part, tiptoed round her, which incensed her even now.
Will, are you ever going to talk to your mum? Tell her we cant be chained to the sofa every week?!
I cant, Liv. Shell be so upsetshe thinks shes doing us a favour.
Shes drowning us in mum-television, Olivia hissed. Its a textbook invasion of personal space!
Honestly, its just her way of being here, Will muttered, staring into the carpet pile.
Thats when the phone pinged. Fiona, again. Will picked up, resigned as always.
The weeks rolled by, each one a little heavier than the last. Even Olivias guilt started to combine with Wills. The woman really was aloneher husband gone, friends growing frailer, and her only child rarely visiting. Maybe, Olivia thought, all this was simply a desperate way of staying connected.
Unfortunately, empathy didnt make the arrangement easier. She started dreading her own evenings, marking the family broadcasts on her phone calendar with red emoji. She fantasisedhalf-seriouslyabout coming down with tuberculosis, just for an honourable excuse.
One night, she tried reason.
Will, what if we went round to see her once a month, instead? A proper visit, a whole day?
He shook his head sadly. Mum wouldnt accept that. She needs regular connection. Plus, if we actually go, you know what happens. Two hours of how we ought to live, what to cook, and why our curtains are all wrong. Youll want to flee before shes finished with the scones.
He wasnt wrong. Fiona, in person, was a one-woman advisory boardfrom stew recipes to acceptable dressing-gown colours.
So what, were prisoners forever?
Its not prison. Its compromise.
Compromise means both sides meet halfway, Olivia shot back. Here, only were budging.
He fell silent. And Olivia realised, with a sting, that Will would always, instinctively, take his mothers side. His guilt for not seeing her after Dad passed was a weight even Olivia couldnt offset.
The turning point came unexpectedlyher birthday, in early November. Will had a table booked at a nice restaurant, flowers ready, promises of romance in the offing. Olivia counted the days, craving, for once, a day entirely her own.
But the day before, Fiona sent a text:
Will, darling. Olivia, happy birthday in advance! As a treat: tomorrow on Imperial Art, 8pmStrong Women. A film about Frida Kahlo! Thought itd make a perfect present. Well watch together, discuss after. Olivia, I know you love inspiring women!
Olivia stared at the message, aghast.
She cant be serious, she muttered, shoving the phone at Will. My birthday?
Will shrugged, apologetic.
She didnt know we had plans
My birthday? Every year? She does know, right?!
Will suggested they eat earlier, then hurry back for the present. Olivias glare momentarily clouded over Birmingham.
So were to plan my birthday around her telly schedule?
Dont exaggerate
Im not! I cannot believe even today you’re putting her whims above my sanity!
In the end, they went out. They shared a polite dinner, but Olivia could see Will checking his watch, fidgeting as the clock crept towards eight. When he suggested they dash back just in case, Olivia stopped cold.
No. Not tonight. If you want to watch with your mother, be my guest. Ill be in the bath with a book and a glass of wine.
And for once, Will did what he was told. When Fiona phoned the usual minute past eight, he let it ring out.
The fallout, naturally, arrived the next morning. Fiona sounded stricken. Will stammered something about internet trouble; Fiona waved it off, Lets catch up at three. Ive recorded it!
Olivia could have screamed. She took the phone herself.
Mrs Harris, thank you for the cultural enlightenment, but we really cant always fit the TV around everything else. Sometimes we just want our own plans.
The silence at the other end was so cold, Olivia could feel it through the line.
I see. You think Im intruding, dear?
No, of course not
I only wanted to bring us together. If its an inconvenience, you couldve just said.
Olivia winced with guilt. She passed the phone back to Will, who naturally caved and agreed to their usual Sunday session. As they sat through the documentary together on split-screens, Olivia felt like an extra in her own life.
After that, Olivia stopped resisting. The evenings became perfunctory. She watched the screen, commented on command, but inside, she shrank. She was a paid actress in her own marriagea bit part.
Will, relieved by the peace, thought things were fine. He made her coffee before shows, squeezed her hand after. But Olivia resented him. Hed chosen to keep his mum happy, instead of listening to his wife.
One day, Margaret caught her post-gym, grumbling with frustration.
Honestly, Livwhy not just pull the plug? Phone StarScreen, say youve switched providers.
Its prepaid, non-refundable. And even if we fibbed, Fiona would never let it rest.
Look, Margaret replied, youve got two choiceslie down and take it, or take a stand. Because if you dont, those boundaries will keep getting nudged. Today, its telly nights. Tomorrow, shell be picking out your baby names.
That struck a nerve.
Weeks went by. Olivia grew sleepless and distracted. Will, sensing trouble, avoided the subject. On a typical Thursday, they were watching a documentary about butterflies (Winged Wonders), and Fionas delighted commentary was an endless hum. Olivia gazed not at the screen, but at Will. He appeared as enthralled as someone waiting for their flu jab.
She turned to him quietly. Will, I cant do this anymore.
He stared, startled. What?
This. I cant pretend. I dread my own evenings. Either we give her the telly back or we refuse to be prisoners. Your choice.
Fionas virtual voice cut through: Some butterflies only live for a single day. But oh, how much they accomplish
Olivia called, Sorry, Mrs Harris, Ive got a headache, and left the room.
Later, Will joined her, looking worn out.
I ended the call, said you werent well. She offered to come round, but I said not to.
I mean it, Will. I cant keep doing this. Will you actually talk to her?
He hesitated, but nodded. That night, he stepped onto the balcony, and Olivia heard fragmentsMum, please we just need to change things It doesnt mean we dont love you
When he returned, he was shaken. Well cut backto every other Sunday. Shell choose one film, well choose the next. A compromise.
This time, Fiona found a new social circlea film club at the library. Arguments over Fellini with Vera Paterson became her new hobby. She found people her own age to watch films with, and her grip on the Harris households schedule loosened.
With their evenings restored, Olivia and Will rediscovered each other. More talking. Fewer resentments. Honesty, even when clumsy, at least moved things forward.
One peaceful Thursday, Olivia looked up from her book and said, I havent felt this calm in ages.
Will smiled. Me neither.
She thought of Fiona, now building a life outside their living room. She thought about boundary setting and the ease with which it could all slip away if no one spoke up. Happiness, it seemed, was about solving problems, not avoiding them. The right to say no wasnt selfish. It was essential.
As rain battered against the window, Olivia snuggled under her blanket. The TV was off, the room full of rare and precious silence. Their silence.
Next week would be another joint viewingthered be other requests, more debates about history and art and which biscuits are acceptable on camera. But now, it happened on their terms, not Fionas.
Somewhere across town, Fiona sipped her tea in her armchair, jotting down ideas for her film club. Shed learnt, not without pain, the greatest lesson of parenthood: let go a little, so everyone can breathe.
Olivia reached for Wills hand and squeezed it, grateful. For the hard-won freedom. For having reclaimed her own evenings. For remembering, at last, that to love someone else, you cant forget to love yourselfand a novel, on a sofa, in your own quiet home, is sometimes the purest act of self-care there is.
And outside, the rain kept falling, and everything was at last exactly as it should be.
