“Cancel the beach trip,” Andrew says without looking up from his phone. “Mum’s flying in.”
I stand in the bedroom, an open suitcase on the bed. In my hands is a brand‑new swimsuit, still tagged. My first in seven years.
“How can you cancel?” I place the swimsuit neatly on the duvet. “The tickets are non‑refundable. Two‑hundred and eighty pounds, Andrew.”
He rubs his nose and slumps onto the edge of the sofa – his usual pose when a conversation veers away from where he wants it to go.
“What can I do? She’s already booked a train. It’s leaving the day after tomorrow. I can’t just tell her to turn around.”
We’ve been married for seven years, and in all that time I’ve never taken a holiday. No seaside break, no spa weekend, not even a weekend in a neighbouring town. The first year we spent three days in Brighton for our honeymoon before my mother‑in‑law, Margaret, called to say her blood pressure was high. We cut the trip short. Her reading was 130 over 80 – perfectly normal for someone her age. I knew that because I’m a pharmacist and see those numbers on prescriptions every day.
Since then there’s been no getaway. Every time we start planning a break, Margaret appears – the fourth time in seven years, like clockwork.
“Andrew,” I sit down beside him, trying to keep my voice steady. “We’ve been saving for this holiday for four months. I’ve taken extra twelve‑hour shifts. You’ve seen me come home exhausted every night.”
He glances up from his screen. “I see,” he says. “But Mum’s more important.”
I adjust my glasses. My fingers slip; my skin is raw and cracked from years of handling antiseptics in the pharmacy. The texture feels like sandpaper.
“More important than what?” I ask.
“It’s more important than the sea, Blythe,” he finally looks at me. “Mum is seventy‑four. Don’t you get it?”
I understand. Margaret lives in York, in a modest three‑bedroom flat with a neighbour who pops in daily. She does her own shopping, carries her own bags, makes twenty jars of pickles for winter herself. Each of her “visits” begins with the same call to Andrew: “Love, I’m missing you, I’ll be staying for a week.”
A “week” stretches to two, then three. Once she even lived with us for a month until the neighbour called to say there’d been a burst pipe in Margaret’s flat.
“I won’t cancel,” I say. “You go meet Mum. I’m flying out.”
Andrew lifts his head as if I’d said something scandalous.
“You’re flying alone? Without me?”
“With Sonya.”
“No,” he stands abruptly. “No, Blythe. We’re a family. Either we’re together, or we’re not.”
I give up, just as I have before. I shove the swimsuit back into the luggage, close the suitcase, and store it on the high shelf. Two‑hundred and eighty pounds gone, non‑refundable.
Two days later, Margaret stands in the hallway with a heavy checked bag and a sack of home‑grown cucumbers.
“Well, show me what you’ve got,” she says, eyeing the hallway. “The wallpaper could use changing. Andrew, do you even look after the flat?”
***
Margaret stays with us for three weeks. In the first two days she reorganises everything in the kitchen – pots to a different cabinet, spices to another shelf, cutting boards under the sink because “it’s more hygienic.” I work twelve‑hour shifts and come home to a flat where I can’t find anything.
“Margaret,” I say on day three, opening a cupboard for a pan. “I’m used to things being in a certain order. It’s easier when everything is where it belongs.”
She looks over my glasses, a heavy stare from above – even though I’m taller than her.
“You, Blythe, are used to chaos. This isn’t order; it’s a mess. Who puts a pan next to the rice?”
“It’s convenient for me,” I answer.
“It’s not for me, and it isn’t for Andrew either. Right, Andrew?”
Andrew sits at the table, phone in hand, shoulders hunched – the usual posture when his mother talks to him.
“Mum,” he mutters. “Fine.”
“Fine” is all I hear. Not “Blythe is right” and not “Mum, this is her kitchen.” Just “Fine”.
On day five Margaret tackles the curtains. I bought linen curtains last year in a mustard hue, matching the armchair and cushions, for eighty pounds.
I get home from work, find the curtains folded on the chair, a white voile draped over the windows – something Margaret brought with her.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“These are proper curtains,” she taps the table. “Not rags. Mustard is a hospital colour, not a home colour.”
I stay silent for three seconds, then remove the voile, fold it, and place it on a stool. I retrieve my own curtains and start hanging them. My hands don’t shake this time.
“What are you doing?” Margaret’s voice drops.
“I’m hanging my curtains,” I say without turning. “I like these curtains. This is my home. I decide the colour.”
Silence stretches for about five seconds. Margaret stands, leaves the room, and I hear her dialing on the landline. The voice is muffled but I catch: “Andrew, your wife is being rude to me. I’m not used to this.”
Andrew returns from work earlier than usual. The door slams, startling Sonya in her room.
“What have you done?” he asks, stepping over the threshold.
“I’ve hung my curtains.”
“Mum’s upset! She brought us everything, tried, and you didn’t even say thank you!”
I look at his broad shoulders, which now straighten because his mother isn’t in the room. With her, he hunches; with me, he straightens.
“Andrew,” I say, “I thanked her for the cucumbers, the jam, the pastries. But I’ll choose my own curtains.”
“This IS our home!” he snaps.
“Then why does your mother make the decisions?”
He says nothing, rubs his nose, turns and walks to his mother.
That evening Sonya comes into the kitchen, quiet, a textbook in her hands, as if she’d just come for water.
“Mum,” she says, “he calls her every time before a holiday. I’ve heard it.”
“What have you heard?”
“He says, ‘Mum, we’re leaving on this date,’ and she shows up. Every single time.”
I put the kettle on and listen to it boil. It isn’t coincidence. Four times in a row is a pattern.
Sonya shifts her weight from foot to foot.
“Mum, are you okay?”
“I am,” I say. “Go do your homework.”
I’m not okay. I pull out my phone, open a notes app and tally. First honeymoon, a three‑day Brighton package for three, one hundred and twenty pounds. Second, Turkey two years ago, one hundred and ninety pounds. Third, a trip to the Baltic coast last spring, fifty pounds for tickets and hotel. Fourth, this two‑hundred and eighty‑pound nightmare. Six hundred and forty pounds gone in seven years, all non‑refundable.
Andrew has, in that time, taken his mother to a spa resort in the Peak District twice, both times funded from our joint money.
I close the notes, put the phone away, and pour myself a tea. My hands feel steady. I haven’t decided yet, but something inside has shifted.
A month after Margaret leaves, I invite my friend Val to dinner. Val works with me at the pharmacy; we’ve known each other nine years.
Andrew heads out to a mate’s house to watch football. Sonya stays in her room. Val and I uncork wine, slice cheese, settle at the kitchen table – the first decent evening in ages.
“How are you?” Val asks. “Where are you going this summer?”
“Nowhere,” I reply, smiling at the familiar question.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Val shakes her head. We both know.
The doorbell rings. I open it to find Margaret on the doorstep, bag in hand, a sack of cucumbers.
“Andrew said you’re home alone,” she says. “I thought I’d drop by. It’s been a month…”
A month feels like forever.
She steps in, sees Val, and sits. I pour her tea because Margaret never drinks wine and never approves of it.
We chat for ten minutes, then Val asks, “Margaret, do you travel much?”
And the story unfolds.
“Oh, dear!” Margaret sits up straight. “Andrew took me to the Peak District twice – spa baths, massages, hills. Lovely!”
She turns to me.
“So, Blythe, where have you been lately? I haven’t seen a single photo of you anywhere.”
I adjust my glasses.
“No,” I say. “Nowhere.”
“See?” Margaret says to Val, as if explaining something obvious. “Young, healthy, never goes anywhere. Andrew suggests, she refuses. It’s her fault. In my day I’d been all over the country.”
Val looks at me, lips pressed together.
“Margaret,” Val says, “Blythe isn’t staying away because she doesn’t want to.”
“Why not then?”
Val falls silent, eyes asking for permission.
I answer myself.
“Because every time we buy tickets, you arrive,” I say, voice even. “Four times in seven years. Honeymoon – you called, we turned back. Turkey – you showed up the day before departure. Baltic coast – same. This year – the sea. Two‑hundred and eighty pounds, non‑refundable. In total six‑hundred and forty pounds lost.”
Margaret stops tapping the table. Her finger freezes midway to her cup.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m stating facts,” I reply. “No complaints, just numbers. I can give dates if you need.”
Silence.
Val gets up, says she has to go. I see her out. When I return to the kitchen, Margaret is already dialing Andrew.
Twenty minutes later he bursts in, shoes off but still in his trainers.
“Why are you embarrassing Mum in front of guests?” he snaps.
“I didn’t embarrass anyone. I named the sums.”
“What sums? What are you on about?”
“The six‑hundred and forty pounds we’ve lost on cancelled trips over our marriage.”
Andrew looks at his mother. Margaret stands in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Love,” she says, “it’s either me or her.”
“Mum,” Andrew rubs his nose.
“She has to apologise,” Margaret interjects.
Andrew turns to me.
“Blythe, apologise to Mum.”
I take off my glasses, wipe them on the inside of my coat. Without them everything blurs – Andrew, his mother, the hallway with their shoes.
“No,” I say. “I won’t.”
“Then I’m going to stay with Mum,” he declares. “Until you come to your senses.”
“Fine,” I reply.
He waits for another response, his jaw twitching. I stay silent, he stays silent. He grabs his jacket and heads for the door. Margaret follows, leaving the cucumber bag in the hallway.
I sit on a stool in the empty kitchen. My legs ache after a twelve‑hour shift, and now this. Inside, though, it’s as clear as a sky after a storm.
He returns three days later, no apology, no conversation. He just hangs his coat and sits down for dinner. Margaret has gone back to York.
A week later Andrew starts speaking to me in clipped phrases: “Dinner ready?”, “Where’s the shirt?”, “Pick up Sonya.” I realise he’s punishing me with silence for not apologising.
Another week passes and I start diverting money into a separate account that he doesn’t know about.
A year flies by. Sonya turns sixteen, and I arrange her passport myself. Andrew signs the consent form without a question – he doesn’t care unless his mother calls.
In May I book tickets for myself and Sonya to Antalya, three‑star hotel, nine nights. I pay from my own account – the one Andrew doesn’t see. I’ve been saving forty‑seven pounds each month from my salary, enough after a year.
I buy refundable tickets this time, learning from past mistakes, and tell Andrew,
“Let’s all go together in June. I’ve found a good deal.”
He looks at me as if I’ve spoken a foreign language, then nods.
“Alright. Let’s try.”
I spend two weeks packing, buying Sonya new sandals and a straw hat, and for myself a sunscreen that our pharmacy sells at a twenty‑percent staff discount.
Four days before departure Andrew arrives home later than usual, sits at the table, phone face‑down. I recognise the gesture – the screen down means he’s on a call with his mother, or she’s on him.
“Blythe,” he starts.
My fingers clench, nails digging into my palms, not from anger but from anticipation. I know what he’s going to say.
“Mum’s coming. We need to meet her.”
“When?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“The day after tomorrow.”
The day after tomorrow – two days until the flight.
“Andrew,” I say, “Did you call her?”
“What?”
“Did you tell her we’re flying?”
He averts his eyes, rubs his nose, and I realise – yes. He told her, as he has done four times before. He gave the date, the itinerary, and Margaret instantly booked a train ticket – like clockwork.
“She misses us,” Andrew says. “She’ll be seventy‑five this year.”
“Seventy‑four,” I correct. “She’ll turn seventy‑five in November.”
He waves a hand dismissively.
“It doesn’t matter. She’s alone. We’re the ones she has. The sea isn’t going anywhere.”
All seven years flash through my mind: every “the sea isn’t going anywhere” line, every tagged swimsuit, every suitcase I’ve unpacked and repacked, six hundred and forty pounds lost, four ruined holidays, twelve‑hour shifts that have cracked the skin on my hands.
“Alright,” I say.
Andrew exhales, relaxes, and thinks I’ve given up.
“You’re clever,” he says. “I’ll call Mum, tell her to bring spare bedding – we don’t have much left.”
I nod, leave the kitchen, and step into Sonya’s room.
“Get ready,” I say. “We’re flying the day after tomorrow.”
Sonya looks up from her phone.
“He said—”
“I know what he said. Pack the suitcase. Swimsuit, books, charger. I have the passports.”
She watches me for three seconds, then smiles – the first smile in a month – and darts to her backpack.
I return to the kitchen. Andrew is still at the table, phone pressed to his ear, discussing with Margaret which set of sheets to bring.
“Andrew,” I say, “I’m not cancelling the tickets.”
He looks up.
“What do you mean?”
“In the literal sense. I’m flying with Sonya. You stay and meet Mum.”
The line goes dead. Margaret, on the other end, has probably gone silent too.
“You serious?” he asks.
“Seven years, Andrew. Seven years without a break. Four cancelled trips, six‑hundred and forty pounds gone. I work six days a week, twelve‑hour shifts, my hands cracked from antiseptic. I’m forty‑eight. I want to see the sea.”
“And Mum? What do I tell her?”
“Tell her your wife has finally taken a holiday – for the first time in seven years.”
He stands, the chair creaking. “Blythe, if you go, that’s…,” he stammers, “that’s disrespectful to my mum. To me.”
“And four cancelled holidays is respect to me?” he doesn’t answer, phone clenched in his hand. From the hallway I hear Margaret’s voice: “Andrew! What’s happening? What is she saying?”
I turn and leave the kitchen.
I spend the night awake in Sonya’s room, checking passports, hotel confirmation, insurance, transfer details. Everything is paid for.
In the morning I write a short note on a scrapI zip my suitcase, give Sonya a quick hug, and board the plane, finally tasting the long‑awaited freedom of the sea.
