My mother will be living with us. Thats settled, my husband announced one evening. Yet before the sun set, he was packing his things.
There is a certain sort of man who makes decisions as swiftly and stubbornly as if hammering a nail: quickly, sharply, and with little care for where it lands.
Charles was one of those men.
Not a bad man, mind you. Hardworking, dependable, devoted to his mother nobody could take that away from him. He simply had grown used to believing that once hed decided something, that was the end of it. His wife might grumble a bit, but she always obeyed in the end.
Margaret, in truth, always had. With the kind of patient smile women wear when they’ve seen through it all long ago.
Then, one evening, Charles came home, set the kettle on, and announced, quite matter-of-factly,
My mother will be living with us. And thats final.
He said it as one declares the time, casual and without apology or asking for a household discussion.
Margaret was by the cooker.
Wait, she said. We havent even
Margaret, Charles spoke her name in that flat tone he used to close a subject. Shes alone. Shes turned sixty. Its my duty.
Duty. That word precisely.
Not, how do you feel about this? But duty, as if it belonged to him alone, and Margaret was just standing by.
Charles, she began gently, lets talk about this. Your mother is a lovely woman, I dont deny it. But this is our flat. Two rooms, just us.
Two sofas, he interrupted. Wheres the problem?
Margaret turned off the hob and faced him, surveying him closely, trying to gauge whether he was even listening or if he was struck with that selective deafness that comes on when something doesnt match his own plan.
Have you made your mind up? she asked.
I have.
Without me.
Shes my mother.
That was that.
Margaret nodded, slow and thoughtful.
I see, she said quietly.
And she left for the bedroom.
Charles lingered in the kitchen then shuffled back and forth. Sat, stood up again. The man had made his decision and now had no idea what to do with the fact that it pleased no one.
Margaret sat on the edge of the bed and stared from the window.
He made up his mind and didnt bother with me, she repeated to herself.
The talk never came that evening. Nor in the morning.
The next day, Margaret gave it another try.
Charles sat on the sofa with his phone, scrolling as always, when Margaret sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap.
Charles. Lets be serious.
He put the phone down. A good sign he rarely did.
Go on, he said.
I do understand youre worried for your mother. Truly, I do. Shes alone, and its hardly easy for her. But we live in just two rooms. Theres two of us, and already it feels cramped at times. If there are three
And? he asked.
Well, itll be difficult. I shall feel uncomfortable.
You dont care for her?
Margaret closed her eyes a moment.
That question. Whenever a woman says, Id be uncomfortable, comes, Oh, you mustnt love her. As if one cannot love someone and yet not wish to live with them in such close quarters.
I have nothing against your mother, Margaret said patiently. We get on fine. But its one thing having her visit, another for her to move in. Theyre quite different, Charles.
Shes family.
Yes, I know.
Shes not happy on her own.
Im aware.
So what exactly is the problem, then?!
Margaret watched him in silence a long moment. Then, quietly, she asked:
Are you actually hearing me?
He didnt reply. Picked up his phone.
That was the end of the conversation.
The following day, Mrs. Agnes Baker rang.
Margaret, dear, good afternoon, her mother-in-laws voice was gentle, embarrassed. I hope you dont mind me calling. Charles mentioned the situation and, well, I realise its awkward.
Its fine, Mrs. Baker, Margaret replied automatically.
No, it isnt really, her mother-in-law objected softly. I can hear it in your voice.
Margaret hesitated.
I just dont quite understand how this would work, she admitted.
Oh, but I do, Mrs. Baker replied. Very well, in fact. I had a mother-in-law too, forty years ago now. I remember the, Shell move in. Final say. She chuckled quietly. We lasted three months before we had to separate again. Nearly drove one another quite mad.
Margaret smiled in spite of herself.
Mrs. Baker, the thing is, Charles is very insistent.
Ah, thats Charles for you, her mother-in-law interrupted gently. A good son. Perhaps too good at times. Once he latches on to an idea, its near impossible to shake him loose. He was like that as a boy, stubborn as an ox.
Margaret stayed silent; there wasnt much to add.
Speak to him again, Mrs. Baker urged. But differently. Not about square feet. Tell him straight: Charles, it matters to me that you consult me and talk things through. Say just that.
And if he still doesnt listen?
There was a pause.
Then that thats another matter entirely, Mrs. Baker said softly. But give him time. Men climb out of Ive made my decision mode slowly. Like a big ship turning round.
Margaret laughed, surprising herself.
Thank you, she said.
Dont mention it, Mrs. Baker replied, almost in a whisper. I dont want to come between you two, remember that. Whatever Charles says, I dont want that.
That evening, when Charles came through the door, he sensed a shift straightaway.
Whats happened? he asked.
Nothing.
They ate in silence. At last, Margaret said:
Charles, may I say just one thing? Just the one, and please let me finish.
He nodded.
It doesnt matter whether its your mother or my mother, whether weve two rooms or ten. What matters is this: you made a decision that affects us both and didnt ask me. You simply didnt ask. As if I dont live here at all.
Charles opened his mouth.
Please, dont interrupt, she reminded him.
He shut it again.
Thats all I wanted to say.
She got up to wash the dishes.
Charles sat staring at the tablecloth. For a long time. Then got up, stepped onto the balcony, stayed a moment, then returned and stood by her at the sink. He reached out and hugged her.
All right, she said softly. Lets have some tea.
Charles held his cup in both hands, silent.
Did you call your mother today? Margaret asked.
Not yet.
She phoned me.
Charles looked up.
What did she say?
Plenty, Margaret replied. Shes a wise woman, you know.
He nodded briefly, a little awkward, that shy pride a son can hardly hide.
She is, he agreed.
Outside, the drizzle turned into honest rain. They sat together, and the heavy cloud over them seemed, at last, to begin to drift away.
On the third day, Charles phoned his mother. Margaret was there, by the kitchen door, listening.
Mum, start packing a few things. Ill come down at the weekend to help.
Margaret stood silently as he put the phone down and turned.
No, she said.
He winced.
Margaret, I cant just leave her to be alone. Dont you see?
Im not asking you to, she said, cutting him off. Im just asking you to ask me. Simply to ask.
Charles stood, paced the room, back and forth.
So comfort matters to you more than my mother?
Charles, Margarets voice was quiet. Please.
No, let me finish! He raised his voice for the first time in days. I cannot choose between my wife and my mother! It is not right to be forced to make such a choice!
No one is forcing you, Margaret replied. You forced it on yourself. Because you presented it as a done deal and simply expected me to accept it.
And you wont?
No.
Charles stared at her long, with a new and complicated expression confusion, hurt, anger, and something more.
Fine, he said at last.
He left for the bedroom, and Margaret heard him opening the wardrobe.
He reappeared with his bag and pulled on his coat.
Ill stay with Mark tonight, he said.
All right, replied Margaret.
He picked up his keys, stood a moment.
You do see this isnt right, dont you?
I do, she answered. What I cant see is how you think its right not to ask me in the first place.
Charles opened his mouth, found no words, and closed it again before leaving.
The door clicked shut.
Margaret went back to the kitchen.
As the kettle boiled, the phone rang Mrs. Baker again.
Margaret, forgive me. Charles just messaged to say hes off to a friends. Is it because of me?
Mrs. Baker…
Dont, her mother-in-law said softly. I know. Its because of me.
No, corrected Margaret, its because of him. He made all the decisions and never asked me.
There was a pause.
Quite right, said Mrs. Baker.
Sorry?
You did right. Her voice had become steely. Margaret, I am not moving in with you. Not ever. Thats my decision. My own. Ill be seventy before long, and Ive managed well enough. My son is a good man, but sometimes he needs to be pulled up sharp. You did that. He never really heard me.
In the morning, Margaret woke at half past seven. No messages.
Life, as it does, moved on.
Charles came home the next morning, just before ten.
He rang the bell, though he had his key. That, in itself, spoke volumes.
Margaret opened the door. He stood on the step, overnight bag in hand, rumpled from sleeping at a friends house.
May I come in?
Of course, she said.
They went to the kitchen. Charles sat down, hands on the table, staring at them.
Mum called, he said.
I know.
She said she wont move in. That its her own decision, and I shouldnt try to argue. He paused. She also said I behaved like an idiot. Her words, more or less.
Your mother is very wise.
Yes, he agreed, without the slightest trace of irony. Margaret, Ive never been good at, well, speaking about all this. You know that.
I do.
But Ive realised I was wrong. I made the decision myself and expected you simply to accept it. That wasnt right.
Margaret watched him.
No, it wasnt, she agreed.
I wont do that again, he said simply.
Margaret poured the tea and set a mug before him.
As for your mother, she said. Ive no objection to her coming round. For weekends, visits, helping each other out. Thats actually rather nice.
I understand, he nodded.
He looked at her with that new expression shed noticed the day before.
You did well, he said, quietly.
I know, she answered, smiling for the first time in three days.
Outside, an ordinary autumn sun shone neither hot nor especially bright, but gentle, making everything feel, just for that moment, properly in its place.
