Just Tied the Knot Yesterday, She’s Moving in Tomorrow – Announced the Son in the Hallway

Got married yesterday, she moves in tomorrow, the boy shouted down the hallway.

Ethel Whitaker, you should see these prices! his neighbour, Mabel Hargreaves, pointed at the shop window. Three pounds a kilo for tomatoes! Its daylight robbery!

Its not a life, its a constant drain, Ethel sighed, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. Back when I retired you could get by; now youre barely keeping the ends together.

Are you living alone? Doesnt your son help?

I live with my son. George is always busy with work. He brings home money, sure, but you barely see him at home.

At least you have someone, Mabel said with a sigh. My children have all moved away; I only see my grandchildren on holidays.

They said their goodbyes, and Ethel shuffled home, her arms aching from the shopping bags, her legs humming from the walk. At sixtythree, the aches reminded her more often.

The flat was silent. George was, as usual, nowhere in sight. Ethel dumped the groceries, set the kettle on, and settled by the window with a mug of tea, watching the grey autumn courtyard.

Her life had settled into a calm rhythm. Her husband had died fifteen years ago; shed grown used to solitude and learned to manage on her own. Shed raised George, put him through school, and helped him stand on his own feet.

George, now thirtyfive, worked as a programmer for a large firm and earned a decent salary. The threebedroom flat had originally been given to Ethels late husband by the factory that employed him.

George occupied one bedroom, Ethel the second, and the third served as the sitting room. They each lived their own lives, only crossing paths at dinner and even then, not always.

Ethel never complained. George was a good son, sent money when he could, didnt drink or cause trouble. His love life, however, was a bit of a mess one girlfriend after another, nothing serious.

Dont rush me, Mum, hed say whenever she nudged the subject of marriage. Ill find the right one.

And, it seemed, he finally did. Over the past six months hed been staying out later, coming home less often. He answered questions evasively, but Ethel could tell he was smitten.

Will you introduce me to her? she asked one evening.

I will, Mum. When the times right.

The moment arrived unexpectedly. Ethel was washing the dishes after dinner when the front door swung open. George had returned earlier than usual.

Mum, you home? his voice trembled with excitement.

Just in the kitchen!

He stepped into the doorway, hair a mess, eyes alight. Ethel instantly sensed something important.

Mum, Ive got to tell you something.

Go on, Im listening.

He paced the room, searching for words.

We got married yesterday, he blurted, stopping in the centre of the flat.

Ethel sank onto a chair; the world tilted.

What? she managed.

Im married. We signed the papers yesterday. Blythe moves in tomorrow.

George, youre joking?

No, Mum. Its serious.

How could you keep this from me?

It just happened spontaneously.

Spontaneously? A wedding can just happen like that? Ethels voice shook.

Dont start, Mum. Im an adult, I make my own choices.

Ive never even seen this Blythe woman!

Youll meet her tomorrow. Shes lovely; youll like her.

Ethel sat frozen, words caught in her throat. The shock was so strong she could barely breathe.

Mum, say something, George crouched down beside her.

What should I say? Congratulations? You didnt even think to warn me first.

Im warning you now.

After the fact? Thats not a warning, its a fact!

Sorry, it just happened.

She rose, retreated to her bedroom, closed the door, and sank onto the bed, face in her hands. Tears streamed down, but she held back sobs. Her son had married without her knowledge or blessing, and now a stranger would be moving into her home. What was she supposed to feel?

She lay awake all night, turning over thoughts. Who was Blythe? Why the rush? Was she pregnant?

Morning found her with a heavy head and red eyes. George had already left for work, leaving a note on the kitchen counter: Mum, well be back this evening. Please have something for dinner. Love you.

Love you, was easy to say. How about her feelings?

On instinct, she began cooking. She boiled borscht, fried meatballs, tossed a salad. Her hands moved automatically while her mind raced.

By evening shed swept the floors, dusted, set the table. The flat was tidy and cosy, but her heart felt like a cats claw.

The door opened around eight. Ethel stood at the kitchen sink, drying her hands, heart thudding as if about to leap out.

Were home! George announced brightly.

She stepped into the hallway, where George stood with a tall, slender woman. Blythe had long, blonde hair, bright makeup, and looked no older than twentyfive.

Mum, this is Blythe.

Hello, Blythe extended a hand, smiling.

Hello, Ethel shook the cool palm.

Blythe wore an expensive leather jacket, trendy jeans, and a gold chain that caught the light she looked like shed stepped off a magazine cover.

George told me youd be making dinner. How charming! Blythe chirped, shedding her jacket.

Ethel winced at the nickname Georgie. No one had ever called her son that.

Come into the kitchen, Ethel said briskly.

At dinner Blythe chatted nonstop, bragging about their wedding, how wonderful George was, how happy she was. George gazed at her with adoring eyes, hanging on every word.

Ethel ate her borscht in silence, nodding occasionally. She disliked everything the sprightly young woman, the way George stared at her, the suddenness of it all.

May I call you Mum? Blythe suddenly asked, fluttering her lashes.

As you wish, Ethel replied coldly.

Oh, wonderful! Ive never had a motherinlaw before; my own mother passed long ago. How lucky I am!

After dinner George showed his wife around the flat. Ethel stayed to clear the table, hearing their laughter and Blythes footsteps.

This will be our bedroom, George said.

Where will Mum sleep then? Blythe asked.

Shell have her own room, of course.

Ethel pressed her lips together. So Blythe assumed shed give up her own space?

That night, when the young couple settled in Georges room, Ethel retired to hers. She could hear their muffled voices and giggles through the walls, and loneliness settled over her like a fog.

Morning found her up early, as always, heading to the kitchen for breakfast. Blythe appeared an hour later, yawning and stretching.

Good morning, Mum! she sang.

Good morning, Ethel grumbled.

Oh, youve already made breakfast? How thoughtful!

I always make breakfast.

Im not much of a breakfast person just coffee.

George likes a hearty breakfast.

Itll grow on you, Blythe said, pouring herself a cuppa.

Ethel flipped cottage cheese fritters on the stove, thinking Blythe would soon try to change her sons habits.

George arrived, sat down, and Ethel placed the fritters on his plate, pouring tea.

Thanks, Mum, he smiled.

Georgie, are you really going to eat that? So many calories! Blythe grimaced.

I always have it for breakfast.

Well, Id watch my figure if I were you.

George glanced between his wife and his mother. Ethel turned away, hiding how hurt she felt.

After breakfast Blythe began unpacking. Shed brought three huge suitcases and a mountain of boxes, filling Georges room and shoving things into the wardrobe.

Georgie, where will I stash my makeup? Theres no space!

I dont know, well figure something out.

Maybe we can ask Mum to clear a shelf in the bathroom?

Ethel, passing by, stopped.

There are no free shelves in the bathroom.

Impossible! Theres a whole cabinet! Blythe protested.

Thats my stuff.

Move it a bit, please!

I cant.

Blythe pouted, looking annoyed at George.

Mum, could you free up a shelf, please? George begged.

Ethel silently moved to the bathroom, shuffled her jars, freed a shelf, then returned to the bedroom and shut the door. Tears welled again. She felt like a guest in her own home.

A week later Blythe was fully settled, rearranging furniture, hanging pictures.

Mum, shall we move the sofa in the lounge? Itd be cozier there! she suggested.

Its been in that spot for twenty years.

Change is good!

I dont need change.

Come on, Georgie, tell Mum itll be better!

George tried to please everyone, and eventually the sofa was shifted. Ethel said nothing, retreating to her own room.

Blythe didnt like cooking; she ate ready meals, left dishes piled up, and Ethel cleaned up after her.

Mum, youre such a good housekeeper! Blythe praised.

I could teach you.

Why? Youre already brilliant at it!

Ethel realised Blythe was simply using her, preferring to offload chores onto her motherinlaw.

One evening she decided to go to the shop. Blythe lounged on the sofa, watching TV.

Blythe, could you grab some bread? Im a bit tired.

Oh, Im exhausted today! Can we ask Georgie?

Hes at work.

Then youll have to go yourself. You always do.

Ethel took her bag and left, tears still burning. The thought of her daughterinlaw not even offering to shop for her hurt.

She trudged back up the stairs, the heavy bag pulling at her arm, her chest aching. She paused on the landing, catching her breath.

At home Blythe was still on the sofa, George not yet back.

Ah, youre back! What did you get?

Ethel slipped into the kitchen, unpacked the groceries, hands trembling, heart racing.

That evening, over dinner, Blythe announced:

Georgie, lets throw a party! Invite my friends!

Great idea, George cheered.

Mum, is that alright? Blythe asked, but her tone was more demand than question.

Does anyone care about my opinion? Ethel muttered, exhausted.

Come on, Mum, dont be like that, George frowned. Of course it matters!

Im opposed. I need quiet.

Oh, please! One night wont hurt. Well keep it lowkey! Blythe cooed.

No.

Georgie, tell her!

George looked between his mother and wife.

Mum, please. Blythe wants to celebrate our wedding with friends.

The wedding was a month ago.

Better late than never!

Ethel rose from the table.

Do what you like. Im going to visit Mabel.

The party went ahead on Saturday. Blythe invited ten noisy young people, bottles clinked, music blared.

Ethel fled to Mabel Hargreavess flat, sipping tea and venting.

Oh, Ethel, classic case! Mabel laughed. Young wives always try to push the motherinlaw out!

Im not getting in their way!

Youre a barrier simply by existing. She wants the flat to feel hers.

Its my flat!

Then defend it, or youll be trampled.

Ethel returned late; the guests were still shouting, music still thumping. She locked herself in her bedroom.

Morning revealed a mess: dirty dishes, ashtrays full, wine spilled on the table. Blythe slept in the lounge, George in his room.

Ethel cleaned for three hours until everything looked respectable again.

Blythe emerged for lunch, yawning.

Good morning! Oh, youve already tidied up? Thanks!

Youre welcome, Ethel replied flatly.

Wheres Georgie?

Hes asleep.

We had such a great night yesterday! Too bad you werent there!

Im not sorry.

Blythe poured herself coffee.

Ethel, have you ever thought of moving in with a friend or relative?

Ethel froze by the stove.

What?

Youre alone, were a young couple. We need space, you know?

Its my flat.

Technically, yes. But Georgie is your son, so its his too!

The flat is in my name.

Doesnt matter! Family matters more than paperwork!

Ethel turned to her daughterinlaw.

Im not going anywhere. This is my home.

You wont live here forever!

Maybe not, while Im alive.

Blythe pursed her lips, huffing.

Young people need freedom!

Freedom in a threebedroom flat is scarce.

Exactly! Youre always in the kitchen, in the bathroom! I cant relax!

Ethel left the kitchen, trying not to say more. She sat in her bedroom, head in her hands.

She realized they were trying to push her out of her own house.

That evening she spoke with George. He came home from work, and she asked him to sit.

Son, I need to have a serious talk.

Im listening, Mum.

Your wife said I should move out because you need freedom.

George blushed.

She didnt mean it like that

What did she mean?

Just we want some alone time now and then.

You have your own room.

Thats not enough. We want the whole flat for ourselves.

But this is my flat! Ive lived here all my life!

I know, Mum, but maybe we should consider something else? Maybe stay with Aunt Gally?

Ethel could not believe her ears. Her own son, the man shed raised, was asking her to leave?

Are you serious? she asked.

Yes, Mum. Blythe is young, she wants to feel like the lady of the house. When Im here, she cant.

Im not in her way!

You are! Youre always critiquing, sighing, looking disapproving!

Im silent all the time!

But your face says otherwise, like were hurting you!

Youre hurting me! You want to evict me from my home!

George stood.

You know what, Mum? Im tired. I try to please everyone and end up hurting all of you. Blythe is my wife, shes more important right now.

He left. Ethel sat, staring into the void. Her son, the man shed given everything to, wanted her out.

That night she lay awake, plotting. By morning she called a realtor shed found online.

I want to sell the flat.

Very well, well arrange a valuation.

The agent arrived the same day, inspected the property, quoted a price. Ethel agreed.

Where are you moving? the agent asked.

Ill buy a onebedroom flat. I dont need much alone.

Many people are doing that now kids take the bigger place, parents downsize.

Im not giving it away. Im selling and buying for myself.

The agent shrugged, began the paperwork.

That evening at dinner Ethel announced,

Im selling the flat.

George choked, Blythe dropped her fork.

What? they both asked.

Im selling. Ill buy a small place and live on my own.

Are you mad? George turned pale.

No, Im perfectly sane. You wanted freedom, you get it. All of it.

But

Its my flat. I can do what I want with it.

Blythe leapt up.

You cant! Were a family!

Family that wants to kick me out?

We didnt mean to, we just wanted you to move out sometimes!

Ill leave. Forever.

George clutched his head.

Mum, lets discuss this calmly!

Theres nothing to discuss. Decisions made. The agent starts showing the flat tomorrow.

Where will we go?

RentShe packed her belongings, feeling both relief and melancholy, and locked the door for the last time.