James refused to go to the seaside because of the budget, and then I saw a photo of his mother at a resort.
Emma, what on earth do you mean Brighton? Have you seen the prices? We agreed this year wed tighten the belt. The roof on the cottage needs fixing, the car needs a service, and the worlds a bit shaky at the moment. Every penny counts, and you keep dreaming about the sea, the sea James snapped his calculator off the kitchen table, brushed his nose, and wore an expression that said he was exhausted by his wifes unreasonable wishes.
Emma stood by the window, watching the hot asphalt of the back garden melt under the July blaze. She ached for the salty breeze, the roar of waves, a whole week of lying down without thinking about quarterly reports, stew pots, or endless scrimping.
James, we havent been away for three years, she whispered without turning. Im tired. My holiday is slipping away. Weve been putting it off. Up on the top shelf in that old cupboard is a sum that would cover both of us, if were modest. Not a fivestar hotel, just a little guest house.
Modesty wont cut it now, James cut in, pouring himself a cup of lukewarm tea. Tickets have gone up, food is practically gold. Well spend everything we have, and then what? Well be left shivering in winter? No, Emma. This year we stay home. Well head to my familys cottage, theres a river, fresh air. Whats not a resort? And well help my mumshes got cucumbers to pick and jars to seal.
Emma sighed. Arguing with James when he switched on his practical husband mode was pointless. He always managed to twist things so she felt like a spendthrift, a selfish girl only thinking of her own pleasure, while he, the poor soul, bore the weight of the household on his shoulders.
Fine, she gave in, a hollow disappointment rising inside her. The cottage is the cottage. Just dont expect me to stand at the stove from dawn till dusk. I want a break.
Good girl, Jamess voice softened. And the money will stay safe. We still have to extend the insurance.
The next two weeks drummed on in the stifling heat of the city. Emma went to work, dreaming of an airconditionersomething James dismissed as a luxury (Open a window and youve got a draft, why waste electricity?). She counted the days until the holiday. The thought of spending two weeks at his mother Eleanors cottage in Leicestershire didnt thrill her, but it was better than being trapped in a concrete box.
Three days before the planned departure, everything shifted. Evening fell, Emma was frying cutlets, trying not to think of the kitchen turning into a furnace, when Jamess phone rang.
He answered, and his relaxed face turned to alarm in an instant.
Yes, Mum what? Are you alright? Blood pressure? What did the doctors say? I understand well find the money, dont worry, health comes first.
He hung up and looked at Emma, his expression tragic.
Emma, trouble. Mum called. Shes really ill. Blood pressure is spiking, her hearts fluttering, her legs are shaking. The doctor said she needs immediate treatmentnot just pills, but a full regimen, rest, a strict routine.
Hospital? Emma asked, turning off the stove.
Worse. The doctor wants her in a specialist sanatorium, a cardiac one, somewhere in the Midlands so the climate isnt too extreme. Theyll do rehab, baths, massages. Otherwise she could have a stroke. You know shes aloneDad passed long ago. If anything happens to her, I wont forgive myself.
James paced the kitchen, nerves twitching.
So the cottage plan is off. Mum needs a sanatorium. I checked prices earlier this spring when the first signs showed up, and it isnt cheap. The package, travel, procedures all paid.
Emma felt a cold knot form.
How much?
James hesitated. Almost everything we saved. Plus a little extra from this months wages. But its my mum, Emma! You cant put a price on health. Were young, well manage, but she needs help now.
All the money we put aside for our holiday and the cottage roof? Emma asked, her throat tightening with bitterness. Thats about £1,600. Thats what a twoweek stay in a decent Midlands sanatorium costs?
Good sanatorium! James snapped. Full board and treatment! Are you really counting pennies while a mother is dying? I didnt expect such coldness from you. A person on the brink of death, and youre fussing about a few pounds!
Emma clenched her jaw. Accusations of coldness were his favourite weapon. Of course she couldnt say nohow could she refuse help for his mother? That would be cruel.
Im not stingy, she said softly. Fine. Let her go. Health comes first.
James immediately wrapped his arms around her, planting a kiss on her forehead.
Thank you, love. I knew youd understand. Youre my gold. Ill go tomorrow, take the money, help her pack, drive her to the station, and see her onto the train. Theyve recommended a sanatorium near the River Derwent, they say the air there is healing.
The next day James emptied their hidden stash. Emma watched, a heavy heart, as a plump envelope slipped into his bag. She was left alone in the city, on a holiday without sea, without cottage, without even enough cash for a café treat.
James returned late, exhausted but satisfied with his deed.
Done, he exhaled, collapsing onto the sofa. Mum put up a fight, cried, didnt want the money. She kept asking why we never take a break. I coaxed her, told her wed still be working.
Will she call when she gets there? Emma asked.
The signals terrible, James replied quickly. The sanatoriums in a remote forest, total quiet. Shell switch her phone off to avoid radiation affecting her heart. Shell maybe call a couple of days from the reception, if she can. So dont bother her, let her heal.
Emmas holiday began. She spent days at home, doing a massive cleanup, anything to keep her hands and mind busy. The heat persisted, the city seemed to melt. James went to work, came home each evening and talked about how hard this period was, how he worried about his mum.
Did she call? Emma asked each night.
She did, James nodded. Her voice sounds brighter. Shes taking the treatments, eating a diet, its dull but the air is goodpines, silence. Exactly what the doctor prescribed.
Emma felt a sliver of relief. At least something useful came of her sacrifice.
A week later, Emma sat on the balcony with her laptop, lazily scrolling through a social feed she rarely visited. Bored, she checked how her old school friends were living. Photos of beaches, cocktails, bronzed bodies flooded the screen. Everyones at the sea except me, she thought, bitterness edging her mind.
A suggestion popped up: You may know this person. The picture showed a plump lady in a widebrimmed hat and oversized sunglasses. Emma flicked past it, but her finger froze. Something about the tilt of the head, the fuchsia lipstick, felt hauntingly familiar.
She went back. The account was called Lucy Lovely. Emma frowned. She didnt know any Lucy. She clicked.
It was an open page for a friend of her motherinlaw, Aunt Lucy, who had been as close to Eleanor as sisters since school. The latest post was three hours old. Location tag: Torquay, seaside resort. Emma opened the photo.
The shot showed, against a turquoise pool and palmlike trees, two women at a table. Tall glasses with umbrellatopped cocktails and a platter of massive prawns sat before them.
One woman was Lucy. The other
Emma zoomed in. Her heart seemed to tumble downwards.
The second woman, in a bright leopardprint bikini and a sheer sarong, laughed wildly, head thrown back. Around her neck glimmered a familiar gold chain with a hefty pendantthe very one James and Emma had given her last year for her birthday.
It was Eleanor, the ill mother who, according to James, should have been tucked away in a Derbyshire forest, eating steamed cutlets and breathing quiet air.
Emmas hands began to tremble. She scrolled further down. Yesterdays photo: Were on a banana boat! Feel the rush! Eleanor waved, perched atop an inflatable in the middle of the sea.
The day before: Evening promenade. Live music, kebabs with brandy. She danced in a fancy dress with a man.
Three days ago: Checked in! Gorgeous room, sea view! Thanks, dear kids, for the gift! The caption read, Thanks dear kids.
The words struck like a cold hammer. Dear kids had given the gift. Only one kid knew nothing about the money spent on treatment, the other had brazenly lied.
Emma sat motionless for five minutes, absorbing the images. Jamess voice replayed in her head: No money, Youre a spendthrift, Mums dying, Bad signal in the woods.
She felt foolish, naive, duped.
She screenshoted every picture, saved them in a folder, then rose, went to the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of water. The glass clinked against her teeth. A cold, calculating anger began to replace the hurt.
James was due back in an hour. Emma decided not to explode at the door; that would be too easy.
She prepared dinner, set the table. When the lock clicked, she met her husband with a smile.
Hey love, how was your day?
Ah, exhausted, James sighed, slipping off his shoes. The office heat was unbearable, the airconditioner broke, we almost boiled. Anything to eat?
Of course. Everythings on the table.
They sat down. James ate the stew heartily, rattling on about supplier problems. Emma nodded, adding a garnish here and there.
So, hows mum? she asked, eyes fixed on him. She called today?
James paused, fork halfway to his mouth, then swallowed.
She called this afternoon, just a minute. The signals dreadful, it cuts out. She says the treatments are hard, shes tired. Doctor ordered bed rest, so shes mostly reading. She misses us.
Poor thing, Emma murmured, pressing a napkin until the knuckles whitened. Shes lying there, then. Hows the weather up there? Rain?
Yes, she says its overcast, cool. They say heat isnt good for her blood pressure, so its perfect.
Right. James, I was thinking maybe we could pop over for the weekend? Bring some groceries? Its only a fivehour drive.
James choked on his drink, his face flushing.
Youre insane, Emma. That place is a closedoff sanatorium, almost a quarantine zone. No visitors allowed. The doctors forbid it, they say any excitement could spike her pressure. She needs peace.
What a strict doctor, Emma shook her head. Fine, too bad. I was going to bake her a cake.
She moved to the side table where the laptop lay.
By the way, love, look at this. I found a sanatorium online, great reviews. Maybe we could go there next year? Have a look?
James, satisfied with his dinner victory and the fact hed kept her from traveling, rose lazily.
What now? Dreaming again?
Emma opened the folder of screenshots, stretched the first picture fullscreen.
Look at that pool, those palms. Its like the Midlands, isnt it? They say climate change is doing miracles.
James stared at the screen. At first he just watched, then his eyes widened. He recognized the bikini, the hat, the very woman with a glass of Pina Colada raising it to the photographer.
Silence thickened, broken only by the hum of the fridge and Jamess shallow breaths.
What what is this? he croaked, voice sounding like a rooster.
This? Emma switched to another photo, Eleanor on the banana boat. Apparently a therapeutic seadance. Very good for blood pressure and joints. And this one
She clicked to a dancing scene, Bed rest mode, strict.
James recoiled as if burned. He looked at Emma. Her face was calm, terrifyingly calm.
Explain, he whispered. Tell me how were stuck in this sweltering city, eating pasta, pinching pennies, while your dying mum lounges in Torquay on my holiday money?
Jamess eyes darted.
She was really ill! The doctor said she needed sea air, iodine, the whole lot! But I knew youd say noyoure always nagging about saving, about us needing to stick to the budget. And her life was slipping away, Emma! When would she ever see the sea again?
Me, nagging about saving?! Emma rose slowly, her voice steady. Youre the one who banned my trip, who said there was no money. You made me feel guilty for wanting a break, and meanwhile you secretly bought a sanatorium package for your mum£1,600, right?
Not £1,600! James shouted, trying to attack. It was cheaper! And its my money too! I earn it! I have a right to help my mother!
Your money? And who pays the mortgage? Me. Who buys the groceries? Me. Your salary disappears into your car, your hobbies, that piggy bank you just emptied for mum. We saved together. Those were our shared funds. You stole them.
Didnt stealborrowed! She raised me! I owe her! James protested.
And what do I owe you? Lies? Hypocrisy? Emma stepped close, eyes blazing. You looked me straight in the eye and fibbed about the hospital, about Derbyshire, about her condition. You made me waste my thoughts on her. Did you and she laugh at me? Silly Emma believed you?
No one laughed! James snapped, fists clenched. Mum just didnt want drama. She knows your temperamentyoud never agree to give that money for a resort!
Of course I wouldnt! Because Im a person too! I work nights, Im exhausted! Why should I foot the bill for a healthy, bulllike mum while Im rotting here?
Dont speak like that about my mum! James roared. Shes elderly, she needs joy!
And I dont need joy? Emma sneered. James, its not about the cash, though that matters. Its that you dont see me as a person. Im just a resource: cook, clean, earn, stay silent, hand over money. Mum is sacred, you can lie to her, you can take her out, but Im expendable.
James stammered, his arguments drying up. Well go on holiday, rest. Shell come back, Ill repay everything. Its nothing, a tragedy.
Repay? Emma shook her head. No, James. Trust isnt something you return. Respect isnt either. I look at you now and see not a husband but a cowardly liar hiding behind his mothers skirt.
She walked to the hallway, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out a suitcasethe very one shed been saving for a seaside escape.
You going where? James asked, panic flickering. Emma, enough. Lets just sleep. Tomorrow work.
Im not going anywhere, she replied calmly. Its you whos leaving.
What do you mean? Where am I going? This is my flat too! James stared, eyes wide.
No, love. This flat is mine, bought before we married. Youre only a tenant, temporarily. Pack your things. Right now.
Youre kicking me out because of mums trip? Seriously? Youre a mercenary witch! Money over family!
Im putting family firstmy family. A family where Im treated like a fool. Pack or Ill call the police and say youre refusing to leave.
James shouted for ten more minutes, stomping, accusing her of heartlessness, threatening divorceEmma just nodded, DivShe closed the door, turned the key, and stepped into the night, finally feeling free.
