I woke at half past six because Mark was fiddling with his phone, the blue glow splashing straight into my eyes. From the next room the clatter of pots rolled like thunder; my motherinlaw, Mrs. Whitaker, rose at six each morning and woke the whole house with her kitchen symphony.
Mark, why arent you asleep? I asked.
Just watching a video, he mumbled without looking up.
I threw the blanket aside and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was no bigger than a pantry, barely twelve feet across. My old childhood bedroom must have been larger. Our belongings were stacked in two suitcases beneath the bed, the wardrobe having been claimed by Mrs. Whitakers endless junk.
This is only temporary, dear, she had promised. Ill sort it out and give you a proper wardrobe soon.
Temporary stretched into eight months of shared life.
Mark, we need to talk, I said.
Emma, after breakfast, okay? he replied. Mums probably making crumpets.
Crumpets! I shouted, then froze, fearing she might hear. Mark, I dont care about crumpets! I want to live on my own, understand? Separate!
Here we go again, he sighed. We agreed to save a bit first.
When did we agree? I sprang up, throwing on a robe. You said a couple of months. Its been eight! Eight, Mark! And you havent even tried to find a place of your own. Youre happy being fed, having your laundry done, your home tidied by Mum. You come home from work and collapse on the sofa like a schoolboy after class!
Why are you getting so worked up? he stretched, standing. Everythings fine. Were saving money, arent we?
What money? I laughed. You earn thirtyfive hundred pounds and refuse to look for another job! You rave about Uncle Victors comfortable post and his friendly team, yet with that salary well never save a penny in five years!
Marks brow furrowed; he never liked it when I mentioned his wages.
But the jobs stable. Im not hopping around every six months like you.
I felt a sting, but kept silent. Yes, I had changed jobs, hunting for better pay and a chance to climb the ladder. I now earned six thousand pounds as an administrator at a medical centre, with a promise of a promotion to senior administrator at eighty thousand.
You know what, I whispered, Im tired of asking your mother if I can hang a little cosmetics shelf in the bathroom. Tired of her correcting my potato frying and the way I iron your shirts. Tired of pretending I enjoy watching sitcoms with her in the kitchen every evening because theres no TV in our room!
Emma, youre exaggerating, Mark protested. Mums not like that!
Your mother, I interjected, treats me like a temporary girl who will fill your time until someone better shows up. She does little tricks: puts salt in my tea instead of sugar by accident, washes my underwear with your black socks until everything turns grey.
I kept quiet, hoping shed get used to me. But Im thirty, Mark! I want my own house, children, not to live forever as a guest in someone elses aunts room!
Mark lowered his head; I saw the conflict tearing him between me and his mother.
Theres a flat Mr. Irving is letting out, I continued, twenty hundred pounds a month, bare walls, almost no furniture. Ive already seen it. We could afford the rent and food. Im putting away two thousand pounds each month for a mortgage deposit. In two years we could buy a modest newbuild of our own.
Youve decided everything without me? he blazed. Youve been looking at places! Thats supposed to be a joint decision, made by both of us!
A joint decision? I sneered. Mark, love, we dont decide anything together. All choices are made in your mothers kitchen while you just nod. Even our holidays went where she told usto her sisters cottage in Cornwall, while I dreamed of Brighton!
From the kitchen came Mrs. Whitakers voice, Kids, breakfast! Crumpets are getting cold!
Im moving out the day after tomorrow, I declared, with you or without you. If you choose the latter, its a divorce. Decide!
I left the room, the ultimatum hanging like a broken clock.
The whole day I drifted through a fog. At work colleagues asked if I was ill; my face must have matched the pallor. That evening I lingered, purposely delayed, wandering aimlessly through the shopping centres endless floors.
Mark was nowhere at home. Mrs. Whitaker sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea with a dollop of jam.
Emma, she cooed, Mark told me you two want to move out. Is that a joke?
Her tone was sweet, but her eyes were cold and sharp.
No, Mrs. Whitaker, not a joke, I replied.
Money down the drain! she snapped. Live here, save! We lived with my own father for twenty years under my mothers roof and what did we have?
I dont want to save for twenty more years, I said. I want to live now.
Youre just a spoiled child, she muttered. Do you think Mark will run after you? Hes a dutiful son; he wont abandon his mother.
Well see, I answered, retreating to the bedroom.
Mark returned close to midnight. I pretended to sleep, but he perched on the edge of the bed and whispered, Emma, I went to see the flat you mentioned.
And? I asked.
It looks proper, he said. Bright, gardenfacing windows, quiet. Ive booked it. Tomorrow we sign the lease. Mum shouted for half an hour, dad was silent as usual. But I decided youre right. We need to start living for ourselves.
I could hardly believe my ears.
Really?
Really, he took my hand. Sorry it took so long. I was scaredscared we couldnt manage, scared for Mum. Shes alone; dads always away on business. I thought Id be abandoning her.
Mark, were not moving across the sea, just to a different neighbourhood, I said. We can visit her every week.
I told her that, he grinned. She said she didnt want to see me anymore.
Itll pass, I told him, hugging him. Shell get used to it, youll see.
I also want Mark hesitated. I want a better job. Ill look, I promise.
I kissed him.
Together well make it work.
We moved on Saturday while Mrs. Whitaker was away at the country house. Marks father helped haul the suitcases up to the fourth floor. Before leaving, he said, Youre doing the right thing, children. Young couples need their own space.
