**You Owe Me, Mum**
I met my future husband on the street. I’d overslept before an exam, dashed to the tram stop, and watched it pull away right in front of me.
“Brilliant,” I muttered, stamping my foot in frustration. “Now I’m definitely late.”
“Where do you need to go?” A bloke on a bicycle stopped beside me. “I can give you a lift.”
“On a bike? You’re joking,” I snapped.
“Better than walking, isn’t it? Or you can wait for the next tram—who knows when it’ll come.” He watched me, waiting.
Back then, mobiles didn’t exist, payphones barely worked, and you couldn’t just flag down a taxi. What did I have to lose?
“We’ll get there faster than the tram—take the back streets,” he urged.
I hesitated, biting my lip, but time was slipping away. I climbed onto the bike rack sideways, gripping tightly as he pushed off. The wobbling handlebars nearly made me jump off, but we steadied. Ten minutes later, we reached the medical college. I hopped down.
“Thanks,” I said, noticing the sweat on his temples. “Was it rough?”
“A bit,” he admitted, grinning. “What’s your name?” He balanced on the bike, one foot propped on the step, our faces level.
“Emily. And you?”
“James. Good luck with the exam.” With that, he cycled off.
I watched him go, then hurried inside. A few students were already shuffling into the exam hall. The corridor buzzed with last-minute cramming. I steadied my breath, trying to focus. The door swung open, and out came a beaming lad clutching his marked paper.
“Top marks?” I asked.
“Solid B,” he cheered, waving his grade sheet.
The next student was called. The invigilator eyed me strangely. “One out, next in. I won’t call twice.”
I stepped forward, plucked a exam slip, and skimmed the questions—I knew them.
“Number?”
“Thirteen.”
“Take a paper and prepare. Anyone ready?” The invigilator glanced past me.
“I am,” I blurted.
Her pencilled brow shot up. “Sure? Maybe—”
“I’m sure.”
She exchanged a look with the professor, who nodded. I walked to his desk.
“How’d it go?” a course mate asked when I emerged.
“Aced it!” I grinned.
“Who examined you?”
“The professor. He was in a good mood today.” My heels clicked cheerfully down the old iron staircase.
Outside, James was waiting by his bike.
“You stayed?”
“Wanted to hear how you did.”
“Brilliant!”
“Fancy a ride?”
“Where?” I blinked. I wasn’t studying tonight, but going off with a stranger?
“Anywhere. We could hire a boat, catch a film, or just walk.”
“Don’t you work?”
“Still on leave for a week.”
We boated, caféd, and cinema’d. By dusk, outside my house, I knew—I was in love.
“Where’ve you been? I was worried! How was the exam?” Mum pounced the moment I walked in. “Don’t mess up your grades—you’ll lose your grant.”
“I won’t.”
A year later, James and I married. He was older, already working. We rented a dingy little flat and were blissfully happy.
Eighteen months on, his dad dropped dead of a heart attack mid-lecture. Mum-in-law crumbled, staring blankly at the ceiling. Fearing for her, James suggested moving in. I agreed. I’d return from college first, cook, clean. She’d wander in, eyeing me like a stranger.
I confided in James—something wasn’t right. Tests confirmed it: grief had triggered dementia. A year later, she stepped out for milk—her late husband’s daily habit—and was hit by a car. James and I were at work.
Suddenly, we had the big house to ourselves. Soon, our son, Oliver, arrived. Life rolled on—rows, make-ups, raising him—until the storm hit.
James grew distant. “I married a slim girl, not this… toad. Hit the gym, get a manicure, do something.”
It stung, but he wasn’t wrong. He’d softened around the middle too.
“I can’t wear falsies—I’m a dentist,” I argued.
Suspicion gnawed. No late nights, no trips. Yet before his birthday, he declared:
“Didn’t I say? I’ve booked a restaurant. The boss hinted at a promotion—can’t look cheap. Big crowd.”
I froze. My cooking always impressed. But I bit my tongue. His day, his rules. Yet unease coiled in my chest.
I bought a new dress, styled my hair. His praise was lukewarm.
The restaurant glittered with toasts and gifts. The boss lauded James’s promotion. Then came dancing. I declined; James whisked off some young thing. In the loo, I overheard:
“You’re bold! Flirting under his wife’s nose! You called her fat and ugly, but she’s alright. He won’t leave her—they’ve a kid.”
“We’ll see,” came the giggly reply.
Back in the hall, James murmured to his long-legged partner. I slipped out, took a taxi.
Oliver was at Mum’s. Home, I scrubbed off my makeup, studying my shattered reflection. Mum worshipped James—she’d never believe me.
He stormed in two hours later. My exit had humiliated him. I’d never heard such venom.
“You humiliated yourself! Dancing with your mistress! Promised her you’d leave me? Fine—take your divorce. Go to her now!”
“No lies. Should’ve said sooner. The house is mine—my parents’. You’ll leave. Yvonne’s pregnant.”
Somehow, I didn’t scream. I packed a suitcase, called a cab. The whole ride, I numbly wondered if this was a nightmare.
Mum opened the door, saw the suitcase, and sighed. Over tea, she blamed me.
“Go back tomorrow! Fight for your marriage! Don’t let some girl steal him. Oliver needs his dad.”
I promised to return Monday—just to shut her up. That night, I sobbed into my pillow.
At work, I asked about rentals. A colleague pulled me aside.
“Friends emigrated to Australia. Their dad’s here—terminal cancer. They need a live-in carer. Afraid strangers might… hurry things along. They’ll sign the flat over after.”
“I’ll do it,” I said instantly.
I switched to part-time. Now, to convince Mum to keep Oliver. A dying man’s no place for a boy.
Mum erupted. Retired, she prized her solitude. “Promises mean nothing! They’ll cheat you. You’ll be blamed if he dies!”
Her nagging wore me down. In days, I’d have fled anywhere.
Caring for a stranger was hard. I wasn’t a nurse. But at least no rent. His pension card covered basics. At first, I cooked properly, but he barely ate. Guilt set in—I switched to eggs and toast. The flat’s smell killed my appetite. Oddly, I slimmed down.
Doctors gave him two months; he lasted eight.
His daughter Skyped often, reassured by his care, then called less.
She sent money for the funeral but couldn’t attend. The next day, a solicitor handed me deeds signed eight months prior. I’d owned the flat all along.
The money covered the funeral and a refurb. The hardest part was scrubbing out the stale, sickly smell.
I fetched Oliver, returned to work. A gruelling year, but distraction numbed the betrayal.
Life settled. Oliver graduated, married a course mate. Her parents bought them a one-bed flat.
When their daughter arrived, space vanished. Oliver moaned about sleepless nights. His wife’s second pregnancy sparked “the talk.”
He’d long blamed me for leaving James, “choosing a flat over Dad.” Grandma’s influence. My explanations bounced off. Now, he raged:
“You’re alone in a huge place! We’re suffocating! Sell it, buy a one-bed, give me the difference. Her parents helped—now you.”
I gaped. “What do you want?”
“It’s obvious! I’ll sell ours, upgrade. Fair’s fair.”
Stunned, I later proposed swapping. He’d take my flat; I’d downsize. No mortgage nightmares.
His face lit. “Love you, Mum.” Funny—he’d never said it before.
As I packed, it hit me: I’d always felt like a squatter in that flat. Now, handing it over felt like justice.
Oliver helped move me. The empty one-bed shockedShe sighed, straightened the cushions on her new secondhand sofa, and realised—for the first time in years—she was free to live, not just survive.
