You Should’ve Known Better, Mum
Emma was frying burgers when the doorbell rang. She stepped away from the stove to answer it.
“Mum, that’s for me,” her daughter’s voice cut in halfway. “I’ll get it.”
“Alright. I didn’t know—”
“Well, don’t just stand there. Go back to your frying,” her daughter snapped, tossing a glance over her shoulder from the doorway.
“Why *my* frying? I got the mince from Waitrose—”
“Mum, just close the door,” her daughter rolled her eyes.
“You could’ve said so sooner.” Emma retreated to the kitchen, leaving the door slightly ajar. She turned off the hob, stood there a moment, then untied her apron and walked out.
In the hallway, her daughter was shrugging on her jacket. Beside her stood Daniel, her boyfriend, gazing at her like she hung the moon.
“Hello, Daniel. Off somewhere? You could stay for dinner.”
“Hello,” he smiled, glancing at Charlotte for direction.
“We’re in a rush,” she said, avoiding her mum’s eyes.
“Come on, just stay. It’s all ready,” Emma tried again.
Daniel hesitated.
“No,” Charlotte said sharply. “Let’s go.” She hooked her arm through his and yanked the door open. “Mum, shut this behind us?”
Emma moved to close it but left it slightly open, catching their voices on the landing.
“Why’d you talk to her like that? Smells amazing—I wouldn’t say no to a burger.”
“We’ll grab something at Pret. I’m sick of her cooking,” Charlotte muttered.
“*Sick* of it? Your mum’s burgers are legendary. I’d eat them every day,” Daniel said.
Emma didn’t catch the rest. Their voices faded down the stairs.
She shut the door properly this time and wandered into the lounge. Her husband was glued to the telly.
“David, dinner’s ready. Best eat while it’s hot.”
“Hm? Oh. Right.” He heaved himself off the sofa and shuffled past her to the kitchen, slumping at the table.
“What’ve we got, then?” he demanded.
“Burgers, rice, salad,” Emma said, lifting the pan lid.
“How many times do I have to say—I don’t eat fried food.”
“I added water. They’re practically steamed.” She froze by the hob, lid in hand.
“Fine. But last time.”
“At our age, dieting’s pointless,” Emma said, sliding his plate across.
“*Our* age? I’m fifty-seven, woman. Prime of my life.” He stabbed a burger, taking a huge bite.
“What’s got into everyone today? Charlotte bolts off, you’re fussing like a diva. Maybe I’ll stop cooking—see how you like *that*. Think café food’s healthier?”
“Go on, then. You could stand to lose a few yourself. Won’t fit through the door soon.” He demolished the first burger and speared the second.
“Oh, so *I’m* fat? And here I was wondering why you’ve suddenly started primping—new jeans, that leather jacket, baseball caps. Shaving your head to hide the bald patch. Who’s it for, eh? Not me. Am I *that* hideous now? Got someone *better* to compare me to?”
“Let me eat in peace.” David scooped up rice but dumped it back. “Pass the ketchup.”
Emma slammed the bottle down hard and stormed out, her own dinner untouched.
She locked herself in Charlotte’s room, sinking onto the bed. Tears welled up.
*Cook, clean, slave away—for what? No gratitude. Husband’s midlife-crisising, eyeing younger women. Daughter treats me like staff. Just because I’m retired, they think they can walk all over me. Should’ve put my foot down sooner.*
She scrubbed her face dry.
She’d always thought they were happy. Not perfect, but normal. Charlotte at uni, doing well. David didn’t drink, brought home a decent wage. Tidy house, home-cooked meals. What more did he *want*?
Emma studied herself in the mirror. *Bit rounder, sure, but not *fat*. Plump cheeks hide wrinkles, at least. Always loved my food—and I cook well. But apparently, that’s worthless now. Used to style my hair for work. Now it’s just tied back. Easier. Can’t hoover in heels, can I? Still… maybe a haircut. And dye. Definitely lose a few pounds.*
She sat heavily, lost in thought.
Next morning, she didn’t jump up at dawn. Stayed in bed, pretending to sleep. *I’m retired. Let *them* sort breakfast.*
The alarm blared. She stirred, turning to face the wall.
“You ill?” David’s voice was flat.
“Mmm,” she mumbled into the duvet.
“Mum? You okay?” Charlotte poked her head in.
“Yes. Sort your own breakfast,” Emma said weakly.
Charlotte huffed and left. Soon, the kettle whistled, fridge door slammed, muffled voices drifted through. Emma burrowed deeper. Let them cope.
David strode in later, reeking of expensive cologne *she’d* bought him. Then they both left. Silence.
Emma threw off the covers but dozed off again.
Woke an hour later, stretched luxuriously, and headed to the kitchen. Unwashed mugs in the sink, crumbs everywhere. *Not my problem.* She showered, then rang her old schoolmate.
“Em! God, it’s been *ages*!” Susan’s voice was exactly the same. “Retirement treating you well?”
Emma said she missed her, was sick of being home, hadn’t visited her parents’ grave in ages. Mind if she crashed at hers for a bit?
“Course! When?”
“Today? Just thought I’d hop on a train.”
“Brill! I’ll bake scones.”
Emma packed a small bag, swept the crumbs into a pile, and left a note: *Gone to Susan’s. Back whenever.*
On the way to the station, doubt crept in. *Let them fend for themselves. But is this too harsh?* “If there are no tickets, I’ll go home.”
But there *were* tickets. A queue formed at the coach. Emma sighed and joined it.
Susan hugged her tight. They drank tea with warm scones, chatting nonstop.
“Spill. What’s *really* going on?”
Emma caved, telling her everything.
“Good. Let them sweat. Turn your phone off.”
“Too much?”
“Perfect. Tomorrow, salon. New look. My mate Val runs one—remember her? Useless at maths, now books out *weeks* ahead. We’ll shop after. Make you *fabulous*. Hubby’ll *regret* it.”
Emma barely slept, worrying: *Are they furious? Relieved?*
Val greeted them warmly, sat Emma down. Dyed her roots, trimmed her brows, then spent ages cutting her hair. Emma nearly dozed off. Val insisted on makeup too.
Emma gasped at her reflection. A *new* woman stared back—sleek, younger.
Val booked her for nails at 8 AM.
“Look at you! Who knew?” Susan gushed outside. “Now, *shopping*.”
“Another time?”
“Nope. That old jumper with *this* hair? No way.” Susan dragged her into the mall.
Emma emerged in linen trousers, a silky blouse, and a taupe cardigan. Exhausted but *happy*. New dress, jacket, heels in her bags. She felt *lighter*.
Back at Susan’s, a broad-shouldered man with snow-white hair and a dark moustache approached.
“Evening, ladies,” he said, eyeing Emma appreciatively. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
Emma blinked.
“Em, it’s *Paul Jenkins*!” Susan nudged her.
“*Paul*?” The scrawny boy from school was now *stacked*.
They drank wine at Susan’s, reminiscing. Emma flushed—from the wine or Paul’s compliments?
“He’s *still* into you,” Susan whispered after he left.
“Don’t be daft.”
“With *that* glow? Trust me.”
Paul lived nearby—ex-army, retired Major. War injury, ex-wife bailed during rehab. Walked with a limp now.
Emma’s stomach flipped.
Next morning, she decided to go home.
Susan argued: “Stay *one week*. Paul got theatre tickets—when’s the last time you went?”
“Pantomime with Charlotte.”
“*Panto*,” Susan groaned. “Wear that new dress.”
Three days later, Emma caved and turned her phone on.
*Mum, where *are* you? Dad’s in hospital!* Charlotte’s voice was frantic.
Emma’s heart lurched. Paul drove her to the stationEmma rushed back to find David bruised and humbled, Charlotte full of apologies—and though things would never be quite the same, the kitchen smelled like home again, full of laughter, burnt burgers, and second chances.
