When I stepped out onto the balcony to gather the washing, something odd caught my eyemy mother-in-laws car was parked outside the flats. She never drops by unannounced.
There I stood, holding a soggy T-shirt, peering over the railing. On the bench beside the entrance, she was sitting next to my husband, Timothy. They were whispering away, and he was holding an envelope she kept jabbing at. Neither of them noticed me.
Just then, my phone started ringing in the kitchen, the sound carrying straight through the open balcony door. Timothy glanced up and spotted me. Our eyes met for the briefest moment.
A minute later, the front door opened and in he walked.
I didnt realise you were home, he said, rather unconvincingly since Id told him that very morning I was working from home.
I saw you downstairs, I replied, eyebrow firmly raised.
He hesitated, then tossed his keys onto the sideboard. Mum just popped round for a bit.
I noticed.
The lingering smell of coffee Id made earlier hung in the kitchen. His mug still sat on the table.
He sat down but avoided looking at me.
What was in the envelope? I asked.
Nothing important.
Those are the two words that always mean the opposite.
Timothy.
He let out a grand, dramatic sigh. Mums got an idea.
About what?
He fiddled with his facealways a sign troubles brewing. About the flat.
I went quiet at that. The flat was my one anchorpurchased with my late fathers inheritance and a mortgage we were both still knee-deep in.
What sort of idea?
She thinks its best if we transfer it to her name temporarily.
The words dropped between us like a dull brick.
Sorry, what?
Just for a little while, he rushed. Itd be simpler for a loan.
I sat opposite him. Whose loan?
He didnt answer straight away. Hers.
Silence. Out on the street, someone slammed a car boot. His mum was probably still lurking by her Ford Fiesta.
So, your mum wants our flat in her name?
Only temporarily.
And you reckon thats completely normal?
He scowled. Were helping the family.
This is my home, I said quietly.
He raised his voice a notch. Its my home too.
But its not your mothers.
He gave the table a gentle thump. Shes helped us loads.
Then I rememberedtwo weeks ago shed said exactly the same line. Word for word.
So youve already discussed this, havent you? I said.
He didnt deny it.
I just wanted to find the right moment to tell you.
I glanced out the window. His mum was still by the car, staring up at the balconies like a cat waiting for treats.
And what if I say no? I asked.
Timothy leant back. Then itll be difficult.
For whom?
He didnt answer.
The kitchen was silent again, apart from the reliable tick of the clock above the fridge. I shifted his half-drunk coffee cup aside.
Be honest with me, I said. If the flat were your mothers, would she ever transfer it to me?
He looked at me.
And said nothing.
Sometimes silence is the only honest answer.
I stood up, marched to the front door, and opened it.
Let your mother know, its not happening.
He scowled.
Is it really so hard to help out? he grumbled.
I looked at him, more certain than Id ever been.
Helping is when someone asks. Not when they secretly plan your life behind your back.
He left without another word.
A minute later, I heard his mothers car pull away.
I closed the door and slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. Sometimes, you learn the most important truthsnot from what people say, but from what theyre willing to ask of you.
Tell me honestlywas I wrong to refuse, or was this not help anymore, but a boundary that ought to be kept firmly in place?
