He Pulled You Out of the Gloom

Son, explain to me what you saw in her? Margarets voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen. Shes a girl from some backwater village, no education, no prospects. You could have chosen anyone, yet you brought home this

Emma froze in the doorway of the sittingroom. A hot flush rose to her cheeks, her face burned with shame and anger. She wanted to storm into the kitchen and unload everything that was bubbling inside, but she was still a guest in this house. A stranger.

Mum, please, a weary voice of Tom called out. I asked you not to start this.

And whats so shocking about that? What didnt mum say? The facts speak for themselves. Peter, tell him!

Emma slipped back onto the sofa, the soft fabric offering no comfort at all.

Theyd met half a year earlier at a county fair, when Tom had driven out to his grandparents place in the countryside. Hed fallen for Emma at first sight or so he later claimed, while kissing her fingertips and promising to whisk her away, to give her a new life. Emma believed him.

Peter Collins and Margaret Collins didnt warm to her at once. From the first moment Emma saw the cold disdain in their eyes, it was clear they wanted to wipe her out of their sons life. They made no effort to be polite. At family lunches they kept silent, speaking to her only through Tom, as if she were invisible or didnt understand English.

Its just a phase, a bit of a fling, Margaret said over tea one afternoon, when Emma stepped into the loo and overheard their conversation through the ajar door. Shell get bored and leave.

Emma kept quiet then, and the next day, and the week after, when her motherinlaw muttered something poisonous about her rural manners. There was nowhere to go. Living on her own was impossible. Besides, she loved Tom.

Despite the familys fierce opposition, Tom married Emma in August. A modest ceremony, a handful of friends, her own mother travelled from the village in the only decent dress she owned. Toms parents made a show of their absence, sending a brief message that they disapproved of the marriage and washed their hands of it.

The first months after the wedding passed in a strained hush. Tom tried to bridge the gap, phoning his mother, but Margaret answered with cold, oneword sentences. Emma didnt block the communication after all, it was his family, his right to try to keep the ties. She simply kept her distance, setting up their tiny rented flat and looking for work.

When the motherinlaw finally agreed to meet, Emma wore her best blouse, tucked her hair back, even bought a bouquet. Margaret accepted the flowers with a look as if someone had handed her a dead fish, and promptly shoved them into the nearest empty vase.

So, have you found a job yet? she asked, taking the head of the table.

Not yet, but Im not giving up, Emma replied, keeping her composure. Im thinking of enrolling in a distancelearning course. I want an education.

How noble, Margaret said. Tom will have to work twice as hard for the both of you!

Emma clenched her teeth, but stayed silent. Tom cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing between his mother and his wife.

She did start the distance course a month later not to win Margaret over, but for herself. To prove she wasnt just a village lass, but a person with ambitions. Emma landed a job in a small firm, handling paperwork, while simultaneously digging into textbooks. She was exhausted, fell asleep over her notes, but kept at it.

Toms parents got more active in the spring. Margaret called with a sugary voice, asking for a hand in the garden.

We need seedlings planted, beds dug, she explained. Tom cant do it alone, and youre used to it, right? You grew up out in the country.

Emma held her tongue. The tone grated on her.

Ill think about it, she managed before hanging up.

What? Tom called after her.

I wont be bending over backwards in their garden, she said firmly.

Theyre my parents, Emma. Is it really that hard to help a little?

Helping is one thing. Being used as free labour is another. They think Im a farmer who should be toiling for them? Let them dig themselves or hire someone.

Tom sighed but didnt argue. Emma knew he would later call his mother and apologise for her. And so he did that evening he locked himself in the bathroom, muttering apologies into the phone for half an hour.

The motherinlaws demands grew more insistent. Calls came every week: Come paint the hallway, Wash the curtains, Pick up the groceries.

Have you lost your mind? Emma finally snapped. Youre both adults, hire a cleaner if you cant manage.

Oh, how you speak to your elders! Margaret erupted. Tom, do you hear how your wife talks to me?

Tom shifted his weight, mumbling something about compromise and respect.

Im not going to be a servant, Emma declared. Remember that. Im your daughterinlaw, not your housemaid.

She turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her. Tom lingered, looking miserable as he tried to please everyone at once.

Work took off surprisingly fast. Emma got a promotion, her salary rose, interesting projects came her way. Tom pretended to be supportive, praising her, but there was a tightness in his voice, as if he was smiling out of politeness rather than genuine joy.

Sometimes Emma dreamed of walking away. She lay awake at night, rehearsing breakup scenarios. Yet there was nowhere to go her mother lived in the village in a tiny cottage, Emma had no savings for a place of her own. She was stuck in the marriage like a fly in a web.

Another family dinner came in June. Tom coaxed her out, promising his parents would be amicable, eager to mend fences. Emma agreed reluctantly, donned a stiff dress, pulled her hair into a low bun.

From the first bite, it was obvious peace was a fantasy. Margaret set the table with a grimace that made it look like each movement was a chore. Peter sat at the head, brooding, occasionally casting a heavy glance at Emma.

So youll keep living off your sons neck? the fatherinlaw blurted after the salads were cleared. Working for peanuts, studying, and leeching the last of my sons money?

I earn more than Tom, Emma replied calmly. I pay for my own tuition.

Peter smirked.

Oh really do you expect me to believe that? Some provincial farm girl outshining my son?

Dad, enough, Tom muttered.

Im telling the truth. I brought her home thinking shed be obedient and grateful. Instead shes turned her nose up, wont go to the garden, wont hand over money.

Because Im not your servant, Emmas voice rang with tension. If you want help, ask nicely, like decent people. But youre used to ordering and humiliating.

How dare you speak to my husband like that? Margaret snapped.

The way he deserves to be spoken to! Emma retorted stubbornly.

Peter rose slowly, his face flushed, veins bulging in his neck.

If it werent for my son, he roared, youd still be living in your filthy village, milking cows! He pulled you out of the mud, and youre still flapping your wings!

Emma also rose. Her heart hammered in her throat, but her voice stayed steady and firm:

No decent woman would ever tolerate a petty, contemptible man like you. Seems you enjoy living like a tyrant.

A heavy silence settled, thick as fog.

How dare you! Margaret lunged, toppling her chair. Leave this house at once! And never come back! Tom, until you divorce her, dont even call us! Got it? Out you go!

Emma calmly grabbed her bag, slipped on her cardigan.

Tom, lets go.

He rose without a word and followed her out.

After the split with his parents, Tom changed. He came home late, flopped onto the sofa facing away from Emma, saying nothing. That went on for days, then weeks. He began snapping.

Youve ruined everything, he shouted one morning, spilling coffee. Because of you Ive lost my family.

Because of me? Emma asked, deadpan. Seriously?

You couldnt stay silent, could you? You had to be cheeky.

They insulted me, and you kept quiet, Emma moved closer, meeting his gaze. You never defended me once in the whole marriage.

Its my parents! What could I have done? he snapped.

Stand up for me. Instead you hid on the sidelines, as always.

Tom turned away. For months he remained sullen, making biting remarks about how a good wife should respect elders, forgive, compromise. Emma listened, realizing the love had burnt out, leaving only ash and bitterness.

One day she could hold her tongue no longer.

Your parents are petty, spiteful people. And you, youve simply adopted them. What a worthy son

Tom exploded, hurling his mug against the wall, shards scattering across the kitchen.

If it werent for me, he shouted, his voice turning foreign and angry, youd still be rotting in your village! I pulled you out, gave you a chance at a decent life! Ungrateful!

Emma looked at him and saw the exact mirror of Peters contempt, the same smug certainty.

Get out, Tom hissed. Right now. Leave my house.

She didnt argue. She fetched an old suitcase from the loft, packed in silence, and slipped out.

Emma called a taxi, hauled the suitcase to the door, and turned for a final glance.

Youre weak, Tom. Pathetic. Youre a carbon copy of your parents.

Half a year drifted by in a fog of shared walls, noisy neighbours, unfamiliar smells, and constant hallway arguments. Emma worked herself to the bone, saved every penny, and filed for divorce in court. Tom signed everything without a word, apparently as tired as she was.

By autumn she had scraped together enough for a decent flat a onebedroom on the outskirts, hers alone, free of strangers and memories. Emma stood in the bright, empty room, looked out at the grey sky, and for the first time in ages smiled. Life went on. Without Tom, without his meddling parents, without the humiliation. Just life, and it was beautiful.