Margaret brought the flannel robe to the kitchen and heard the first yell: “What do you mean, none of your business?” Her voice trembled with outrage. “How is this none of my business? I’m your mother!”
“Exactly why it is!” James snapped, still glued to his phone. “I’m forty-three, Mum. Forty-three! When are you going to get it?”
Emily, her daughter-in-law, rounded the doorway with her morning coffee, her tone sharp as a knife. “She never stops bossing everyone around, does she?”
Margaret whirled on her. Emily stood there in a silk robe Margaret had adored—probably cost her three months of her pension—and glared back with hidden annoyance.
“I’m talking to my son,” Margaret said flatly.
“And I’m talking to my husband,” Emily shot back. “I’m fed up with you showing up every day with your advice.”
“Emily, don’t,” James tried, but she wouldn’t listen.
“No, she needs to hear it!” Emily thumped the coffee down so hard it splattered. “I’m over it! What to buy, where to buy it, how to cook, how to raise the kid. I’ve got a brain on my shoulders!”
Margaret’s chest tightened. She’d just dropped off fresh pasties and a new robe for James—his old one was threadbare. But here was the fight again.
“I’m not unkind,” Margaret insisted. “I just want to help.”
“Help?” Emily scoffed. “You want to control! Every day you call, every day you barge in. Let us live in peace!”
James exhaled, tossing his phone aside. “Mum, honestly, we need space.”
Margaret stared at her Jimmy, the boy she’d raised alone after his father passed. Fed him, dressed him, pushed him through university, helped him buy this flat. Now he asked for space.
“Jimmy, I’m not in the way,” she whispered. “I’ll see the grandkids, bring you dinner…”
“Mum, we can buy our own dinners,” James cut in. “And we cook.”
“Oh, right, your wife,” Margaret blurted. “She fed Martha frozen dinners yesterday.”
“See?” Emily hissed. “Control! I work, for heaven’s sake—I’m not at home all day.”
“Like I’m not busy?” Margaret snapped. “I’ve got my own life!”
“Which life?” Emily mocked. “Gossiping to the neighbors about the poor, abused daughter-in-law?”
Tears prickled Margaret’s eyes. Maybe this was true. Maybe she *was* suffocating them.
“Mum,” James said, standing, “we’re not kicking you out. Let’s just… slow down, yeah?”
“Much slower,” Emily added.
“Emily!” James hissed.
“What ‘Emily’? I’m telling the truth. Once a week at most. Every day’s like clockwork.”
Margaret grabbed her bag, the pasties and flannel robe inside.
“Where you going?” James asked.
“Home,” she said, pasting on a tight smile. “If I’m not wanted here.”
“Mum, no, we’re not trying to exile you,” James said, reaching for her.
“Then what are you doing?” she asked, voice breaking. “You’re saying I’m overstepping. Fine. I won’t come back.”
“Mum, please—”
“Enough, Jimmy.”
She walked out, heart aching. In the hallway, photos stared back: little James on her shoulder, his school play, his wedding. Where did it all go?
James caught her at the front door. “I still love you, Mum.”
“I know,” she said, shrugging into her coat. “That’s why I’ll go.”
“Emily’s just… tired,” he said. “She’s working hard, you know.”
“And you agree,” she said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“Live your lives,” she said. “I’ll live mine.”
The rain had picked up. Margaret stood under the awning, phone in hand. Her sister Alice lived in Brighton—maybe she’d come over.
“Ally? It’s Meg.”
“Meg? What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” she blurted. “Can I pop over?”
At Alice’s, teatime passed in tense silence. “You’re not the villain,” Alice said finally. “You just never let go of James the way he needed.”
Margaret blinked. “So you think I’m wrong?”
“You’re a devoted mother who’s lost herself to motherhood. It’s sad for you *and* him.”
Back home, Margaret stared at the robe in her bag. She’d picked it out for hours, imagining his smile. But it stayed in the cupboard now.
She opened her laptop—Italian course applications were still open. A drama group for seniors. She filled out the forms, heart a little lighter.
The next morning, a call from James. “Mam—can we talk?”
Not “we,” just “you.” “I’ve joined the drama class,” she said. “Starting fresh, Jimmy.”
“Wow,” he said.
“I’m still your mam,” she said. “But if you want to see me, you’ll need to invite me now.”
He mumbled something.
“And I’m not that overbearing swot I thought I was,” she added, and hung up.
Outside, the rain had stopped. A neighbor passed with a dog—no “*you’ve ruined my life!*” headlines in the mirror today.
A new message popped up on her phone: an old college friend from her youth. “Let’s meet up, yeah?”
Margaret smiled. The real life was waiting—full of knitters, actors, and maybe even a new recipe for borscht, just for her.