Mark gives an ultimatum: either I obey his mother or we divorce. And I help him pack his things.
Mark, why are we arguing about this at seven on a Sunday? Emma rubs her temples, watching her husband pace the kitchen, bumping the table with his hip.
Mark stops, sighs dramatically, and looks at her as if explaining basic facts to a stubborn child. A cup of coffee steams in his hand, made only for himself, while hes forgotten about Emma.
Because Mum called, Emma. She didnt sleep at all last night. Her blood pressures high, her heart aches, and she feels abandoned and useless. All because you refused to go yesterday and hang new curtains for her.
Mark, I had my only day off in two weeks yesterday, Emma says calmly but firmly, pouring herself a glass of water. I was working on the quarterly report so we could afford the insurance on your car. I even told Margaret that Id visit next weekend. Curtains arent a matter of life and death.
For Mum it is! Marks voice cracks. She wants comfort! Shes an old lady! And you youre selfish, Emma. All you think about is money. Report, report wheres your soul? Wheres respect for elders? Mum says youre doing this on purpose to drive her away.
Emma slides down into a chair. The argument feels like a scratched record theyve been looping over the three years of marriage. At first it was small requests: fetch a plant, pick up medicine, help with cleaning. Emma always obliged, trying to be a good daughterinlaw. But Margarets demands grew exponentially. Now she expects Emma to rearrange her entire life around her mothers schedule.
I dont want to wear her out, Emma says, staring out the window at the grey autumn rain washing away the last bright leaves. I just need time to rest, time for us. When was the last time we went to the cinema? Or simply walked together? Every weekend were at your mums house, listening to you slice salad the wrong way or scrub the floor incorrectly.
Oh, now youve got a voice! Mark slams his cup down, spilling coffee onto a clean tablecloth. So helping my mother is a punishment for you?
Dont twist my words.
Im not twisting them! Mum was right. She said straight away youre selfish. By the way, shes coming today.
Emma freezes. The cup of water never reaches her lips.
What do you mean coming? Here?
Yes, here, to our flat. Shes got a leak upstairs, the walls are damp, and she needs a place to stay for a week or two, maybe a month, until everything dries and the wallpapers redone.
Mark, we only have a onebed flat, Emma whispers. Where will she sleep? In the kitchen?
Well give her our bed. Shes an elderly lady; she deserves comfort. Well sleep on an air mattress. Were young, we can manage.
Cold anger builds inside Emma. This isnt a requestits an invasion. No one even asked her opinion about her own flat, the one she bought five years before meeting Mark.
No, she says.
What no? Mark asks, puzzled.
No, she wont live here. I can pay for a nice spa resort for a month, with treatment and meals. But sharing our bedroom? No.
Marks face flushes. He isnt used to being denied. Usually Emma sighs and agrees just to avoid a fight. Today, however, the cup of patience that has been filling drop by drop for three years finally overflows.
You dare push my mother out? he hisses. You suggest a staterun home instead of her own corner?
A spa isnt a state home, its a break.
Silence! he slams his palm on the table. Im deciding she stays here. Im a man, my word is law. Stop making me a henpecked husband. Mum arrives in two hours. Youll greet her properly, cook lunch, clear a wardrobe space, put fresh linen, and you wont give me any sour looks.
Emma stands. For a sudden moment she sees Mark not as the charming bloke she met at a work party, but as a petulant, infantile boy terrified of his mother more than losing his wife.
What if I refuse? she asks plainly.
Mark narrows his eyes. He thinks the moment of truth has arrived, the moment to prove who rules the house, just as Margaret always taught him: Keep your mother on a short leash, son, or shell strangle you.
If you dont agree, Mark straightens up, striking a pose he thinks majestic, you get an ultimatum. Either you start obeying me and my mum, doing exactly what she says and showing respect, or or we divorce. Choose. I dont need a rebellious wife; I need a keeper of the hearth who honours the family.
The kitchen is wrapped in a ringing silence, broken only by the hum of the fridge and the drip from the tap Mark promised to fix six months ago but never did because his mum asked him to fix a shelf and he went to her instead.
Emma looks at Mark and feels a strange relief, as if a heavy backpack shes been lugging up a hill has suddenly dropped.
Youre serious? she repeats. Is that your final word? Either obey my mother or we divorce?
Absolutely serious, Mark nods smugly, convinced Emma will now cower, cry, and beg for forgiveness. She loved him, he knows that, and she feared being alone at thirtyfive.
Emma slowly nods.
Fine. I hear you.
She turns and walks out of the kitchen. Mark smiles victoriously. Great! Now I can change the sheets and defrost the chicken. He finishes his cooling coffee, feeling like a winner. Hell call his mum, tell her hes had a proper lesson.
Ten minutes later a strange shuffling comes from the bedroomrummaging, drawers opening. Mark frowns. Is she already clearing space for mums belongings? What enthusiasm.
He steps in and freezes at the doorway.
In the centre of the room sits a large rolling suitcasethe very one they used for their honeymoon in Turkey. Emma methodically packs his clothes, one stack after another.
What are you doing? Mark asks, the triumphant grin fading.
Emma doesnt look back. She folds his favourite jumper, a gift from his mother at Christmas, and places it on top of his jeans.
Im helping you, she says calmly. You set the condition. I chose.
What did you choose? Marks voice trembles.
Divorce, Mark. I chose divorce.
You youre joking? he steps forward, disbelief flashing in his eyes. All because mum stays a couple of weeks? Youd end the marriage over pride?
Emma straightens, finally meeting his gaze. Theres no tear, no ragejust fatigue and icy resolve.
Its not about mum, she says. Its about you giving me an ultimatum. A loving person never issues ultimatums. You said either I become your mothers servant in my own home or you leave. I wont be a servant. So you leave. Its logical.
But its just words! Mark stammers. I only wanted you to see how serious I was!
I see it perfectly. The seriousness is that you dont care about my comfort, my opinion, my feelings. You only care that your mother is pleased. So go make her happy all day long.
She returns to the wardrobe, pulls out a bunch of his shirts, and starts folding them.
Emma, stop! Mark lunges for a shirt. This is hysteria! Put the suitcase away! Mum arrives in an hour and the flat is a mess!
Hands off, Emma says quietly but threateningly, forcing Mark to pull his arm back. There will be no mess when your mum gets here. Because you and your stuff wont be here.
She keeps packing. Socks, underwear, a tracksuit fly into the suitcase. Mark watches his life being boxed up in plastic. He cant believe it. His quiet, easygoing Emma is evicting him?
Where will I go? he cries. Mums place is under renovation, theres no air to breathe!
You wanted her here, remember? Emma shrugs. Now youll stay with her, help with the repairs. Or you can go to a friend, a hotel. Youre a man; youll figure it out.
At that moment the intercom chimes. Mark flinches.
Its mum shes on the way
Perfect, Emma says, zipping the suitcase. Shell help you carry your things to the car.
She wheels the suitcase to the hallway. Mark follows, trying to think of a counterargument.
Emma, love, Im sorry, I overreacted! Lets talk! Dont open the door!
But Emma has already lifted the handset.
Hello?
Emma, its me, Margaret! a firm voice booms. Open up, Ive got heavy bags! Let Mark bring the taxi down, I have no cash for it.
Margaret, Mark will be down with the luggage. Please welcome him, Emma replies, pressing the opendoor button and hanging up.
Mark stares at her, horror painted across his face.
Youre kicking me out? Just like that? What about love? We promised each other!
We promised to be together in joy and sorrow, not to be slaves to your mother, Emma snaps. You made your choice when you threatened divorce. Im just following through. Leave, Mark. No drama.
She opens the front door and rolls the suitcase onto the landing. Mark stands in the corridor, still hoping shell laugh and say its a prank. Her expression is stonecold.
Keys, she repeats.
Trembling, Mark fumbles in his pocket, drops the keyring on the floor with a clatter.
Youll regret this! he yells, his voice cracking with wounded pride. Youll crawl back! Who will you need, old maid?
Go.
Mark storms onto the landing, snatches the suitcase, and darts for the lift. The doors open instantly, as if waiting for him. He shoves the bag inside and punches the button for the ground floor.
Emma closes the door, clicks the lock, then doublelocks it. She leans against the door, slides down to the floor, heart pounding, hands shaking. She wants to scream, to break something, but instead a nervous laugh bubbles up. It turns into a relieved chuckle, then a fullblown laugh of liberation.
Down the hallway, Margaret stands with two battered duffel bags, eyes widening as she sees Mark emerging from the lift with his suitcase.
Mark? Where are you off to? Were coming to you! she exclaims.
Theres no coming to you any more, Mum, Mark growls, anger flaring. Emma threw me out. Divorce.
How could you throw him out? From his own flat? You have no right! Margaret shrieks, dropping her bag. Its joint property!
The flat is hers. I bought it before we married. Im not even in it, Mark snaps.
Ah, youre a monster! I always knew she was a snake! Margaret rants. Well sue! Well show her!
The flats under repair, Mum! Where do you think well go? To Aunt Sophies? To the cottage? Anything but this mess! Mark shouts.
Whatever, well figure something out. Just dont let this bully push you around, Margaret mutters, still fuming.
They argue in the stairwell for a while, while Emma watches from behind the curtainsthe very curtains she refused to hang yesterday.
When a taxi finally whisks Mark and Margaret away, Emma returns to the kitchen. The coffee smell lingers, mingling with his spilled anger. She pulls the dirty tablecloth into the wash, wipes the table, rinses the cup.
She opens the fridge, grabs the bottle of wine theyd saved for a special occasion, and pours herself a glass.
To freedom, she says to the empty, cosy flat.
A week passes. Mark calls daily. At first with threats and demands for his share of household items (he once bought a microwave). Then with complaints about life at his mothers damp flat. Then with pleas.
Emma, I was a fool. Mum pushed me. I dont want a divorce. I love you. Can we start over? Ill tell her to stay out of it.
Emma listens, feeling nothing but disgust. She knows its a lie. If he returns, Margaret will soon be dictating conditions again, and Mark will issue more ultimatums, sure that Emma will never leave.
No, Mark. Ive filed for divorce through the court. We get a month for reconciliation, but I wont compromise. Pick up the rest of your stuff; the boxes are with the concierge.
Dont you even want to see me?
No.
Thats the truth. She enjoys her new life. No one wakes her at seven on a weekend. No one demands reports. No one critiques her cooking. She signs up for dance classes shes always wanted, despite Mark calling them a waste of time. She meets friends who Margaret once labelled divorced losers.
One evening, returning from work, Emma spots Margaret at the lift landing. The former motherinlaw looks pitiful, hair a mess, coat buttoned wrong.
Emma! she rushes, grabbing her arm. Wait!
Emma stops short, not moving closer.
Good afternoon, Margaret. What do you need? Emma asks politely.
Emma, stop fooling! Bring Mark back! Hes drinking, he quit his job, hes sitting in a ruin, staring at the wall. Hell become a drifter! Youre his wife, you must save him!
I owe nobody anything, Emma replies calmly. Mark is an adult. If he drinks, thats his choice. If he quit, thats his decision. Im not his nanny or rehab centre.
Youre twisting words! You broke him! You threw him out like a dog!
I helped him pack, Margaret. He set the condition: either you or me. He thought Id pick servitude, but I chose freedom. And, honestly, that was the best gift he ever gave me.
Selfish witch! Margaret shrieks.
Emma steps into the hallway and shuts the door, cutting off the scream. She calls the lift, looks at herself in the mirrored panel. She sees a beautiful, confident woman with a whole life ahead.
The divorce proceeds quickly and quietly. Mark doesnt show up at court; he sends a signed consent. Emma walks out of the courthouse with a light heart. The November sun shines down.
She walks down the street, thinking about how often women endure disrespect, interference, the role of a secondplace in their own lives, terrified of being alone. Loneliness isnt scary; being alone and invisible is.
That evening she decides to throw a little celebration. She buys a cake, invites her friend Lucy.
Tell me everything! Lucy hands her a bottle of champagne at the door. How do you feel?
You know, Lucy, Emma pours the sparkling drink into two glasses, it feels like I finally exhale. I spent three years holding my breath, fearing Mums disapproval of how I breathe. Now I breathe fully.
What about Mark? Do you miss him?
I do, Emma admits honestly, like you miss a stray kitten. But I cant adopt a fortyyearold man. He needs to grow up. Maybe this will force him to. If not thats his mothers problem, not mine.
They laugh.
Emmas phone buzzes. A message from Mark reads: Emma, I found a job, rented a room. I know I messed up. Can I still text you occasionally?
Emmas finger hovers over the block button. She remembers his grin when he proposed, the way he taught her to ride a bike. She remembers the ultimatum, his smug face: Either mum or divorce.
She doesnt block him. She simply deletes the message and puts the phone down.
Whos that? Lucy asks.
Its spam, Emma smiles. A relic of the past I no longer need.
Life goes on. In this new chapter Emma knows she will never again allow anyone to dictate terms in her own home. Respect for oneself is the foundation of happiness, and if the foundation rots, no amount of mums cosy corner can save the house.
