“But you were the one who suggested we take Mum in. I never forced you,” said James to Emily.
Emily had landed a job at the same firm as James right after uni. He’d noticed the quiet, pretty girl straight away and, as a long-standing employee, gave her a tour of the office. He waited for her at the end of shifts with his car running by the kerb. That’s how they started dating—and six months later, they were married.
James had only just bought their flat, so there was no money left for renovations. Emily’s parents chipped in. The young couple threw themselves into making their first home cosy, hunting for wallpaper in DIY stores, sticking it up together in the evenings. Sometimes, they’d rope in friends to help, laughing as they worked. Emily picked out furniture and little knick-knacks to make the place feel lived-in. When the renovation was finally done, they threw a proper housewarming party. Now, it was time to enjoy their new life.
“Brilliant, isn’t it? Let’s wait a bit before kids, yeah? We’ll go on holiday first—properly relax, then…” James would say to Emily.
It was a golden June, the air thick with floating bits of dandelion fluff. Holiday season had begun, and they spent evenings scrolling hotels, booking flights, dreaming of sandy beaches. But trouble came from nowhere, shattering their plans.
One morning, as Emily leaned over the kitchen table putting on mascara and James hovered by the stove waiting for the coffee to brew, the phone rang.
“Em, coffee’s ready,” James said, picking up.
Emily poured herself a cup, lifting it to her lips.
“What?” James shouted into the phone.
Her hand jerked—scalding her mouth as coffee sloshed across the table.
“What’s wrong?” Emily asked, watching his face tighten.
“Mum’s in hospital. The neighbour just called. I’ll drive over—see what’s happened. Can you get to work on your own? Let them know I’ll be late.”
“Yeah, of course.” Emily stared at the brown puddle on the table.
“Go, you can clean it later. The bus won’t wait,” James said, and she hurried out.
At the bus stop, she glimpsed James speeding past, honking briefly. She waved half-heartedly, licking her burnt lip.
Three hours later, James turned up at her office. “How’s your mum?” she asked.
“Not good. She’s had a stroke. Right side’s gone. Can’t speak. The doctor says chances of recovery are slim. She can’t live alone.”
“So let’s bring her home. What’s there to think about? You can’t drive over every day to feed her, change her—this way, we’ll save time.”
James agreed. Almost too quickly—like he’d been waiting for her to say it.
Three weeks later, they brought Margaret, James’s mother, home from the hospital. Emily and James gave up their bedroom.
“Maybe we take turns with leave to look after her? We can’t leave her alone,” Emily whispered in the kitchen.
“Em, you’re better at this stuff. Stay home tomorrow—I’ll sort it so you work remotely. We’ve sunk everything into this flat. We can’t afford a carer. She needs meds, physio…” James said, and Emily, again, obeyed.
She ran herself ragged. Spoon-feeding Margaret, changing her pads. The second she sat at her laptop, Margaret would moan for help. Then there was shopping, cooking. By the time James got home, Emily was dead on her feet.
Resentment festered. James never lifted a finger—just popped in to say hello to his mum. Mistakes piled up at work till her boss demanded rewrites. Then came the call: James had asked them to let her go. They’d hired someone else.
“Can’t you at least hold the spoon yourself? Help me a little!” Emily snapped at Margaret once.
“How dare you decide for me?” she raged at James later.
“You’re not coping.”
“You could help. I’m breaking my back here—I can’t do it anymore.” She slumped at the table, head in hands. “I’m going mad from the smell. I change her pads constantly, but it lingers. I open a window, and she complains she’s freezing.”
“But you offered to take Mum in. I never made you,” James said.
Emily went still. So that was it—she’d shouldered this burden herself.
One night, James stumbled home late from a work do. Emily was waiting, fists clenched. They screamed at each other—like they did most nights now. She’d had enough. Yanking open the wardrobe, she hurled dresses onto the sofa.
“That’s it. I’m done. She’s your mother—you look after her. I’m leaving.”
A muffled cry came from the bedroom.
“What now?” Emily stormed in.
Tears streaked Margaret’s cheeks. Emily wiped them away. Margaret grabbed her nightdress, mumbling, “Don’t… go…”
Emily sat on the bed and sobbed. Margaret stroked her hair. “I’m sorry. I’m just so tired,” Emily gasped before fleeing—colliding with James in the doorway. She glared at him, fury burning in her eyes.
Next day, before James got home, Emily left. She needed air. A friend’s flat, wine, tears.
“What if you… sped things up?” her friend muttered, tapping her nose.
“How could you say that? What if it were my mum?” Emily snapped.
She never went back. Truth was, she’d had those thoughts too—and they terrified her.
A month later, Margaret died in her sleep. The paramedics said her tongue had blocked her airway, but Emily blamed herself—she’d slept too deeply to hear.
At the funeral, Emily felt numb. James dabbed his eyes. “Never lifted a finger, but now he’s crying. What a performance,” she thought, walking away before the coffin was lowered.
“Goldfish!” a voice called.
She turned. A man grinned at her, his long black coat flapping like wings in the wind. A face from school—Daniel.
“Dan! Harris!”
“The one and only. You look miles away. Funeral?”
“Mother-in-law,” Emily sighed.
“Rough time?”
She nodded.
“Lost my mum four months back. Spent a year caring for her. Wife bolted as soon as she got ill. So I get it.”
“Alone? You did all of it?”
“She was my mum. Your husband still back there?”
Emily glanced over her shoulder.
“Need a lift?”
“Yeah.”
As they passed the cemetery gates, her phone buzzed.
“Why’d you leave? Where are you? I’m at the car,” came James’ calm voice. *The show’s over,* she realised.
“I’m tired. Going home.” She hung up. When it rang again, she ignored it.
“It’ll pass, the anger fades. Fancy a drink? Trust me, it helps.”
“Alright.”
She didn’t care—anything to avoid the flat, where the scent of sickness still clung. *They’ll call Margaret a saint at the wake. James will fake tears. But no one lifted a finger to help me.* The thought made her shudder.
At the pub, Dan ordered wine. The first sip was heaven—she nearly gulped it. The glass emptied fast; Dan refilled it. She drank like she’d been parched for years.
“Easy. Have some food,” Dan said, pushing a salad her way.
The words poured out. Dan listened, his warm hand covering hers. *James never touches me anymore. Is this it? Margaret’s gone—we could fix things. But do I want to?*
“It’s my fault. I wished her dead. I fell asleep and didn’t hear—”
“Stop. It was an accident,” Dan said firmly.
“Goldfish, let’s get you home.”
“No one’s called me that since school.” She swayed; Dan caught her.
He half-carried her to his car. She dozed off, waking as he helped her inside the flat. James’ voice cut through her fog: “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Let her sleep. She’s had a rough day,” someone—Dan?—said.
In the morning, James was gone. Her head pounded. The phone buzzed—Dan.
“Goldfish, how’re you holding up?”
“Head’s killing me.”
“Shower, strong tea. Then come see me.” He gave her an address.
She went to his office that evening.
“You did languages at uni, yeah? Which ones?”
“French, English, dodgy German.”
“Perfect. That’s your office. We need an in-house translator for overseas clients. Fancy it?”
“Seriously?” For the first time in months, she smiled.
“”And as she stood there, taking in her new office, Emily realized the weight had finally lifted—she was free.”
