Emma was frying sausages when the doorbell rang. She stepped away from the cooker to answer it.
“Mum, it’s for me,” her daughter’s voice stopped her halfway. “I’ll get it.”
“Alright. I didn’t know—”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Go back to your sausages,” her daughter snapped, shooting her an irritated glance from the doorway.
“Why *my* sausages? I bought the meat from Waitrose—”
“Mum, just shut the door.” Her daughter rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve said that straight away.” Emma returned to the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind her. She turned off the hob, hesitated, then untied her apron and stepped back into the hall.
Her daughter was pulling on her jacket while her boyfriend, Oliver, stood beside her, gazing at her with adoration.
“Hello, Oliver. Where are you two off to? You’re welcome to stay for dinner.”
“Hi, Mrs. Wilson.” Oliver smiled politely, glancing at Emma’s daughter for an answer.
“We’re in a rush,” the girl replied, avoiding her mother’s eyes.
“Are you sure? I’ve already got everything ready,” Emma pressed. Oliver hesitated.
“No!” her daughter cut in sharply. “We’re leaving. Come on.” She hooked her arm through Oliver’s and yanked the door open. “Mum, can you lock up?”
Emma approached but didn’t close it fully, leaving a crack as she overheard them on the landing.
“Why do you speak to her like that? Smells amazing—I wouldn’t say no to bangers and mash.”
“Let’s just go. I’m sick of her cooking,” her daughter muttered.
“Really? I love your mum’s food. Could eat it every day,” Oliver said.
Emma didn’t catch her daughter’s reply. Their voices faded as they descended the stairs.
She shut the door and walked into the living room, where her husband sat in front of the telly.
“George, dinner’s ready. Still warm.”
“Hm? Right.” He heaved himself off the sofa and brushed past her into the kitchen, taking his seat.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” he demanded.
“Sausages, mash, and peas,” Emma replied, lifting the lid from the pan.
“How many times do I have to say it? Fried food’s no good for me,” George grumbled.
“I boiled them a bit too—they’re almost steamed.” She stood by the cooker, lid in hand.
“Fine. But this is the last time.”
“At our age, there’s no sense in starving yourself,” Emma remarked, setting his plate down.
“What do you mean, *our age*? I’m only fifty-seven. Prime of my life.” He speared a sausage, taking a large bite.
“What’s got into everyone today? Sophie vanishes without dinner, you’re acting up. Maybe I should stop cooking—see how you like takeaways every night. Think café food’s healthier?”
“Go ahead. You could stand to lose a few pounds yourself. Soon you won’t fit through the door.” He polished off the sausage and stabbed another.
“Oh? So I’m fat now? And here I was wondering why you’ve suddenly started dressing like a teenager. New jeans, leather jacket, that stupid baseball cap. Shaved your head to hide the bald spot. Who’s the lucky woman? Clearly not me. *I’m* fat. Got someone to compare me to, have you?” she snapped.
“Let me eat in peace.” George forked some mash but dropped it back onto the plate. “Pass the ketchup.”
Emma wrenched the bottle from the fridge and slammed it down in front of him before storming out. Her own dinner remained untouched.
She shut herself in Sophie’s room, sinking onto the bed. Tears welled up.
*You cook, you clean, you give everything—and what do you get? No gratitude. Husband preening like a peacock, eyeing other women. And your own daughter treats you like hired help. Just because I’m retired doesn’t mean they can walk all over me. I’d still be working if they hadn’t made me redundant. Experience means nothing now—just hire the kids straight out of uni. What do they even know?*
*Up before dawn, even now, to make breakfast. No time to sit down all day. My own fault for spoiling them. Now they’ve made themselves comfortable, riding on my back like I’m their bloody packhorse.*
She scrubbed the tears away with her palms.
She’d always thought they had a good family. Not perfect, but solid. Sophie at uni, doing well. George bringing home a decent wage, no drinking, no smoking. A tidy house, proper meals. What more did he want?
Emma studied herself in the wardrobe mirror. *Alright, I’ve put on a bit, but I’m hardly a whale. Round cheeks hide the wrinkles better, anyway. Always loved my food. Cooking’s one thing I’m good at. Turns out they don’t care. When I worked, I styled my hair, wore makeup. Now it’s just a ponytail—easier for cleaning. Was I supposed to dust in heels? Still… could lose a few pounds. And dye the roots.* She sat back down, lost in thought.
The next morning, Emma didn’t rise early. She stayed in bed, feigning sleep. *I’m retired. I’ve earned a lie-in. Let them sort their own breakfast.*
The alarm blared. She stirred, then rolled toward the wall.
“You ill?” George asked, voice flat.
“Mmm.” She buried her face in the duvet.
“Mum, you okay?” Sophie hovered in the doorway.
“Just a headache. Sort yourselves out.” Her muffled reply was theatrically weak.
Sophie huffed and left. Soon, the kettle whistled, the fridge door thudded, low voices murmured. Emma stayed put, committed to the act.
George entered, reeking of expensive aftershave—*the one I bought him*—then left with Sophie. Silence settled. Emma threw off the covers but didn’t rise, drifting back to sleep.
She woke an hour later, stretched, and shuffled to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs cluttered the sink, crumbs littered the table. She nearly tidied—then stopped. *I’m not the maid.*
After a shower, she rang her old school friend.
“Emma!” came the cheerful reply. “How’s retirement treating you? Bored yet?”
Emma admitted she missed having a purpose—and hadn’t visited her parents’ graves in ages. Would it be an imposition to stay a few days?
“Course not! When?”
“Today. Train in an hour.”
“Brilliant! I’ll bake a crumble.”
She packed lightly, left a note (*Gone to Linda’s. Back whenever*), and headed for the station. Doubt niggled. *Let them cope without me. See how they like it.* But was this too extreme? *No tickets, I’ll go home.*
There were tickets. The queue for the coach stretched long. Emma sighed and joined it.
Linda hugged her tight. Over crumble and tea, the years melted away.
“Spill. What’s really going on?”
Emma confessed everything.
“Good. Let them sweat. Turn your phone off.”
“Won’t that be too much?”
“Not at all. Tomorrow, we’re hitting the salon. My mate Val runs it—remember her? Total dunce in school. Now she’s booked solid. Then shopping. We’ll make you glamorous. Watch George eat his heart out.”
That night, Emma barely slept. *Are they angry? Relieved?*
Val greeted them warmly, settling Emma into the chair. As dye set, she neatened Emma’s brows, then trimmed her hair into a sleek bob. Emma dozed off—until Val insisted on makeup.
The mirror reflected a stranger: younger, radiant. Val booked her a manicure for the next morning.
“Enough! I’m knackered,” Emma protested.
Linda dragged her shopping. She emerged in tailored trousers, a silky blouse, and a caramel cardigan—exhausted but glowing. New dress, jacket, and shoes filled her bags.
Outside Linda’s, a broad-shouldered man with silver hair and a dark moustache approached.
“Evening, ladies.” His admiring gaze fixed on Emma. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Emma blinked.
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten Paul Jenkins?” Linda laughed.
“*Paul*?” The lanky, spotty boy from school now stood tall, confident.
They shared wine and nostalgia at Linda’s.
“He’s still sweet on you,” Linda whispered after he left.
“Don’t be daft.”
“Ex-army colonel. Wife left him after he got injured overseas. Fought his way back. Limps if he overdoes it. Give him a chance.”
“I’m *married*,” Emma hissed.
That night, she resolved to go home—but Linda wouldn’t hear of it.
“Paul’“It’s time I went back,” Emma said firmly, packing her things the next morning—but as she reached for her phone, it buzzed with Sophie’s tearful voice: *Mum, Dad’s in hospital, please come home.*.
