The guests had left, but the hurt remained.
“Mum, how can you say that?” Emily slammed the dirty plate into the sink hard enough to make it clatter against the edge. “Ungrateful? What exactly should I be thanking you for?”
“For everything I’ve given up for you! For putting up with your father all those years for the sake of you kids! For going without so you could have decent clothes, an education!” Margaret stood in the middle of the kitchen, red-faced, gripping a tea towel so tight her knuckles whitened.
“Mum, stop! The guests just left, and you’re already on my case! What did I even do wrong? Didn’t welcome your friends properly? Didn’t set the table? Didn’t bake the cake?”
“You didn’t! That’s exactly it!” Margaret spun around and started scrubbing a mug furiously. “Sat there like a stranger when Judith was talking about her grandkids. Didn’t say a word when Linda asked how James was doing. Didn’t even say ‘thank you’ when they complimented you!”
Emily rubbed her temples. Her head was pounding after three hours at the table with her mum’s friends—endless questions, comparisons, unsolicited advice on how to live “properly.” That constant disapproval, never satisfied with anything.
“Mum, I’m thirty-five. A grown woman. I don’t have to smile and nod every second.”
“Grown!” Her mother scoffed. “Grown women don’t live with their mothers at your age. They don’t mooch off them near forty!”
“I’m thirty-five, not forty! And I’m not mooching! I pay my share, buy groceries, clean, cook!”
“Cook!” Margaret turned, anger flashing in her eyes. “What do you cook? Pasta and sausages? Who made the roast today? The potatoes? Who cleaned the house before the guests came?”
Emily sank into a chair, exhaustion washing over her. The endless criticism, the guilt—it drained her more than any job ever could.
“Fine, Mum. I’m a terrible daughter. What else did you want to hear?”
“I wanted to hear ‘thank you’!” Margaret slapped the counter. “Just a simple ‘thanks, Mum, for letting me stay after the divorce, for helping with James, for picking him up from school.’ But no! You act like I owe it to you!”
Emily swallowed the lump in her throat. Yes, her mum helped with James. Yes, she’d lived in her mum’s house since the divorce three years ago. But hadn’t she tried to repay it? Working two jobs, contributing to bills, doing her part?
“Mum, I do thank you. Maybe not in words, but I show it. I don’t ask you for money. I work, I help around here.”
“Help!” Her mother dropped into the chair across from her, still clutching the tea towel. “Judith’s daughter, Sarah—she’s met someone new. A good man, well-off. He’s already asked her and the kids to move in. And you? Three years alone, just work and home, like a broken record. No life of your own.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Emily bristled. “I can’t just order a decent man like a takeaway! If I meet someone, fine. If not, I’ll manage on my own.”
“On your own!” Margaret stood, pacing. “And what about me? I’m not immortal, you know. Seventy-two last month. How much longer have I got? Then you’ll be alone with a child to raise.”
“James isn’t a baby. He’s thirteen.”
“Thirteen! The worst age! He needs a father, a man’s influence. And what does he see? A mother who’s always working and a grandma doing the parenting.”
Emily pushed back from the table. The conversation was taking its usual path—soon her mum would list every mistake, every failed relationship, every job she should’ve taken.
“I’m going to bed, Mum. Early start tomorrow.”
“Of course, run away!” Margaret called after her. “Like always when things get serious! You’d rather hide than talk!”
Emily paused in the doorway. The words stung—maybe because they held some truth.
“I’m not running. I’m just tired of this. Nothing I do is ever enough.”
“Enough?” Margaret stepped closer. “Then what is, eh? Explain why a thirty-five-year-old woman lives with her mother. Why you’ve no home of your own, no family. Why my grandson’s growing up without a dad?”
“Because life happened!” Emily snapped. “Not everyone’s born with a silver spoon! I had to raise a child, work, not chase after men!”
“Chase!” Her mother gasped. “Is that what you call trying to find happiness?”
“Mum, enough!” Emily turned and headed to her room, her mother’s raised voice fading behind her.
She closed the door and leaned against it. Inside, it was quiet. James sat at his desk by the window, doing homework. He turned when she entered.
“Mum, were you and Gran arguing again?”
“Just talking, love.”
He gave her a doubtful look. At thirteen, he understood more than he should.
“I heard shouting. You both were.”
She ruffled his hair—dark like hers, but with his father’s grey eyes. Tall for his age, sharp, too grown-up already.
“Adults don’t always agree. But we still love each other.”
“What was it about?”
She sat on the edge of his bed. How to explain something she barely understood herself? That simmering resentment, the guilt, the unspoken accusations?
“Gran thinks I’m not a good daughter. I think I’m doing my best.”
“You’re great,” James said firmly. “You work hard. Help me with school. Cook better than some mums.”
“Thanks, love.” She blinked back tears. “How were the guests today?”
He made a face. “They kept going on about their perfect grandkids. Then asked why you’re single. Gran got upset.”
“Upset?”
“Yeah. When Auntie Judith said her daughter remarried, Gran went red and started saying how great you are. But they all looked… doubtful.”
Emily sighed. So it wasn’t just her silence at the table. Her mum had felt judged, embarrassed by her unmarried daughter.
“James… do you miss having a dad?”
He thought for a long moment.
“Sometimes. When something’s heavy to carry, or when lads brag about fishing trips. But I know he’s not coming back. You’re both mum and dad to me.”
Her chest tightened. Thirteen, and already so wise. So lonely.
“If I met someone… would you mind?”
“Not if he’s nice. Just as long as he doesn’t hurt you or kick me out.”
“Nobody’s kicking you out,” she said firmly. “You’re my world.”
He smiled and turned back to his books. Emily stayed, replaying the day.
The guests had arrived at two. Her mum had greeted them in her best dress, hair freshly done, the table laid like it was Christmas—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, trifle. Judith, Linda, and Carol—old work friends, all retired, all obsessed with their children’s achievements.
At first, it was civil. Health complaints, rising prices, the government. Then Judith pulled out photos of her grandkids. Linda’s granddaughter got into university, her grandson won a swimming medal. Carol’s son bought her a new mobile, calls her every day.
Then the eyes turned to Margaret. What could she say? That her daughter was divorced, living at home? That her grandson got good grades but had no father?
Margaret praised Emily’s work ethic, her responsibility. But the pity in her friends’ voices was obvious.
“And her love life?” Linda asked sympathetically.
“Nothing yet,” Margaret said curtly.
“Men these days,” Carol sighed. “Either drinking, jobless, or married.”
“Maybe she’s too picky?” Judith mused. “My Sarah was the same. Then she realised—nobody’s perfect. Just find someone kind who loves kids.”
Emily had sat there, cheeks burning. Discussed like discount stock. Judged by people who knew nothing of what she’d been through.
After the divorce, she had tried dating. But it never worked. Either they couldn’t accept James, or they weren’t who they claimed to be.
A year ago, there was Daniel—a widower with two kids. Seemed perfect—until it became clear he wanted a live-in nanny, not a wife. Then Mark, who’d said, “I can’t handle a kid always around,” and vanished.
Before that, Paul, who’d borrowed £500 and disappeared.
Eventually, she’d stopped looking. Focused on work, James, surviving her mum’s moods.
But today proved—her mother saw her as a failure. A thirty-five-year-old spinster, an embarrassment.
Emily stood by the window. Rain streaked the glass. Soon autumn, then winter. Another year in her mum’s house,She took a deep breath and made a silent promise—next year, they’d have their own place, their own peace, and maybe, just maybe, a fresh start.
