Mum’s on the phone again, telling me how to live.
This is how it goes: yesterday, Mum—Eleanor Whitmore—rings up and starts in: “Emily, what sort of family is this? Why is Kevin living with his mother while you’re alone with Oliver? This isn’t right!” I stand there, listening, my blood boiling. As if I chose this life! My girlfriends stir the pot too, whispering, “Em, how do you put up with this? It’s not normal!” But what am I supposed to do—shout to the world that I’m exhausted? I’m Emily, thirty-five, with a son, a job, and now these daily lectures from Mum. It’s like being trapped in a soap opera where everyone knows how I should live, and I’m the only one who hasn’t a clue how to fix it.
Kevin and I have been married seven years, and at first, it was a fairy tale. He’s a lorry driver, I’m an accountant, Oliver came along, we rented a flat, made plans. But three years ago, his mum, Margaret Hayes, fell ill—heart trouble, blood pressure spikes. Kevin, ever the devoted son, said, “Em, we’ve got to take Mum in; she can’t manage alone.” I agreed—what else could I do? But our place was tiny, and Margaret insisted, “Move in with me; I’ve got a two-bed, plenty of space.” So we did, and that’s when it started. She ruled everything—how I cooked, how I raised Oliver. I bit my tongue, but after a year, I snapped: “Kev, either we leave, or I lose my mind.”
He offered a compromise: he’d stay with his mum to care for her, and Oliver and I would go back to our old flat. I thought it’d be temporary—just till Margaret got better. But three years on, nothing’s changed. Kevin’s still there, playing the dutiful son, while Oliver and I are stuck in our one-bed. We see each other a couple times a week when he visits or I go over. Oliver, now six, keeps asking, “Mum, why does Dad live with Granny and not us?” What do I say? That Dad loves his mum too much? Or that I couldn’t stand living with his grandmother? Truth is, I don’t know myself.
Mum calls nearly every day, nagging: “Emily, this isn’t a marriage! A husband should be with his wife, not his mother. What will people think?” I don’t care what people think—I just want my family together! But how? Kevin insists Margaret can’t cope without him. I’ve tried reasoning: “Kev, let’s hire a carer or find a bigger place for all of us.” He just waves me off: “Em, Mum won’t have strangers, and the doctor says she can’t move.” The doctor? But I’m supposed to live without my husband?
My friends aren’t any help. Over tea the other day, Sarah said, “Em, this isn’t normal. Are you just going to be stuck raising Oliver alone while Kevin plays nurse?” I snapped, “What, should I divorce him?” She hesitated, but I saw it in her eyes—that’s exactly what she was thinking. Divorce? I love Kevin, and Oliver adores him. But I’m tired of being a “temporary widow.” Margaret, mind you, isn’t helpless—she shops, cooks roasts, even knits. But Kevin’s convinced she needs him. And me? I’m meant to manage on my own?
The other day, Mum reduced me to tears. “Emily,” she said, “you’re young—find a proper bloke who’ll be with you, not his mum.” A proper bloke? Kevin is proper—he’s just stretched too thin! I slammed the phone down and cried half the night. Not because Mum’s right, but because I’m sick of this split existence. Oliver deserves his dad every day, and I deserve to feel like a wife, not a visitor. I tried talking to Margaret, but she just sighs: “Emily, Kevin’s my only son. I can’t do without him.” And I’m meant to?
I gave Kevin an ultimatum: either we sort this by year’s end, or I file for divorce. He looked at me like I’d betrayed him: “Em, you’re serious? Over Mum?” Not over her, Kevin—over us! I don’t want to be a wife who sees her husband on a timetable. He promised to think, but I know he’ll choose her again. I’ve even looked at bigger flats so we could all live together, but Margaret’s already declared, “I’m not leaving my home.” So what now—drag her out kicking and screaming?
Now I’m stuck. Mum calls and lectures, my friends whisper, and all I want is a normal family. Sometimes I dream Kevin will say, “Em, you come first—let’s go home.” But he stays quiet, and I don’t know how much longer I can wait. Oliver drew a picture yesterday—me, Dad, him, Granny—and asked, “Mum, when will we all be together?” I hugged him and lied: “Soon, love.” But deep down, I fear “soon” will never come. All I can do is hold it together—until Mum rings again to ask, “Just what sort of family is this?”