My Husband Refused to Go to the Coast to Save Money, Only for Me to Later Find a Picture of His Mum on Holiday

I still recall how James turned his back on a seaside holiday, all for the sake of saving a few pounds, and how later I saw a photograph of his mother lounging at a resort.

Emily, what on earth are you talking about when you mention Brighton? Have you seen the prices? We agreed this year to tighten our belts. The roof on the cottage needs fixing, the car is due for service, and, frankly, the economy is shaky. Every penny counts, and you keep dreaming of the sea, the sea James snapped his calculator shut on the kitchen table, his nostrils flaring, his whole demeanor announcing how tired he was of my unreasonable wishes.

I stood by the window, watching the asphalt of the street melt under the July heat, the air itself seeming to liquefy. My body ached to feel salty breezes, to hear waves crash, to spend a week lying idly, without thoughts of annual reports, stews, and endless pennypinching.

James, we havent been away for three years, I whispered without turning. Im exhausted. My leave is slipping away. Weve saved. In that box on the top shelf lies enough for both of us, if were modest. Not a fivestar hotel, just a guest cottage.

Modesty wont cut it now, he replied, pouring himself a lukewarm tea. Tickets have risen, groceries are dear. If we go, well spend everything, and then what? Stay home shivering this winter? No, Emily. This year well stay at the cottage, by the river, fresh air. Isnt that a holiday? Well also help Mum with her cucumbers; they need harvesting and packing.

I sighed. Arguing with James when he switched into frugal husband mode was futile. He always managed to spin the conversation so I felt like the spendthrift, the selfish one thinking only of my pleasures, while he, poor soul, shouldered the familys responsibilities.

Fine, I relented, a hollow disappointment rising inside. The cottage is the cottage. Just dont expect me to spend my days at the stove from dawn till dusk. I need a break.

Thats sensible, James softened at once. Well keep the money safe. We still have to renew the insurance.

The next two weeks sweltered in the city. I went to work, dreaming of an airconditioner which James dismissed as a luxury (Open a window and youll have a draught; why waste electricity?). I counted down the days to our vacation. The prospect of two weeks at the inlaws cottage in Kent, with Mrs. Harper, did not thrill me, but it was better than being stuck in a concrete flat.

Three days before the planned departure, everything changed. While I was frying meatballs, the kitchen heat nearly matching a furnace, James phone rang. He answered, and his relaxed expression turned to alarm in an instant.

Mum? Whats wrong? High blood pressure? What did the doctors say? he stammered. Right, Ill sort the money. Dont worry, health comes first.

He hung up and looked at me, his face grave.

Emily, its bad. Mums been told her pressure is spiking, her heart is fluttering, her legs are aching. The doctor said she needs immediate treatment, not just tablets but a full regime of rest and specific care.

In hospital? I asked, turning off the stove.

Worse. They want her in a specialised sanatorium for cardiac rehab, somewhere in the Midlands where the climate is gentle. Its a full course of baths, massages, the works. If she doesnt go, they fear a stroke. You know shes alone her husband passed long ago. If anything happens to her, I wont forgive myself.

James paced the kitchen, agitation evident.

So the cottage holiday is off. Ive been checking prices since spring when her first symptoms appeared; its not cheap. The package, the travel, the treatments all paid separately

I felt a knot form.

How much?

Almost everything we set aside for the holiday. Plus a bit from this months wages. But its Mum, Emily! You cant put a price on health. Were young; well manage, but she needs help now.

All the money we saved for the holiday and the roof? I asked, a lump rising in my throat. Thats about £1,500. Thats what a decent twoweek programme in the Midlands costs?

A good facility! James snapped. Full board and treatment! Are you really counting pennies for a sick old woman? I didnt expect such coldness from you. Shes on the brink and youre fretting over change!

I bit my lip. Accusations of coldness were his favorite weapon. Of course I couldnt say no refusing treatment for his mother would have been inhuman.

I dont mind, I said quietly. Fine, let her go. Health comes first.

James instantly embraced me, planting a kiss on my forehead.

Thank you, love. I knew youd understand. Youre my treasure. Ill go tomorrow, deliver the money, help her pack, take her to the station. Shes been recommended a sanatorium near York; they say the air there works wonders.

The next day James emptied the little stash we had hidden. I watched the fat envelope slip into his bag, feeling an emptiness settle over me. I remained in the city, alone, on a vacation without sea, without cottage, without even enough for a coffee out.

He returned late, tired but satisfied with his duty.

She left, he sighed, collapsing onto the sofa. Mum put up a fight, cried, didnt want the money. She kept asking why we didnt have a break. I managed to convince her.

Will she call when she arrives? I asked.

The signals poor, he replied quickly. The sanatoriums in a remote woods, quiet. Shell turn her phone off to keep the radiation away from her heart. Shell maybe call a few times from the reception, if at all. So dont pester her; let her heal.

My holiday began with a thorough house cleaning, anything to keep my hands and mind busy. The heat lingered, the city seemed to melt. James went to work, returning each evening to tell me how heavy the period was, how he worried about his mum.

Did she call? Id ask each night.

She did, hed nod. Her voice sounds brighter. Shes on the treatments, eating a diet, bored but the air is great pines, silence. Exactly what the doctor prescribed.

A small relief crept in at least something good came of my sacrifice.

A week later I sat on the balcony with my laptop, scrolling through social media out of sheer boredom. I rarely visited, but the idle scrolling showed friends on sunny beaches, cocktails, tanned bodies. Everyones at the sea except me, I thought sourly.

A suggestion popped up: You may know this person. The picture showed a plump woman in a widebrimmed hat and massive sunglasses. I flicked past it, then froze. Something about the tilt of her head, the bold fuchsia lipstick felt eerily familiar.

I went back. The account was called Lucy Bright. I frowned I knew no Lucy. I clicked.

It turned out to be a public page of my motherinlaws sister, Aunt Lucy, a close friend of Mrs. Harper from school days. Their last post, three hours ago, was geotagged Brighton, Seaside Town. I opened the photo.

Two women sat at a poolside table, bright cocktails with umbrellas in front of them, a platter of giant prawns. One was Lucy, the other

I zoomed in. The second woman wore a leopardprint swimsuit and a sheer pareo, laughing with her head thrown back. Around her neck glimmered a familiar gold chain with a large pendant the one James and I had given her for her birthday last year.

It was Mrs. Harper, my sick motherinlaw, now sunbathing in Brighton, exactly where I had wanted to be.

My hands trembled as I scrolled further. Yesterdays snap: Were on the banana boat! Feeling brilliant! Mrs. Harper perched on an inflatable, waving. The day before: Evening promenade, live music, a little grill and a dram she twirled in a fancy dress with a gentleman. Two days ago: Checked in! Lovely room with sea view! Thanks, dear kids, for the gift!

The caption read, Thanks, dear kids.

My eyes darkened. The kids who had gifted the trip were not me. I felt the sting of betrayal as Jamess old lines echoed in my head: No money, Youre a spendthrift, Mums health.

How foolish I had been, trusting, naïve. I snapped screenshots of every image, saved them in a folder, then rose, filled a glass of water, the clink of the cup on teeth sounding like a tiny gong. A cold, calculated fury began to replace the hurt.

James was due back in an hour. I decided not to explode the moment he crossed the threshold that would be too simple. I prepared dinner, set the table. When the lock clicked, I met him with a smile.

Hello, love. How was your day?

Exhausted, James muttered, slipping off his shoes. The office heat was unbearable; the aircon broke, we nearly boiled. Want something to eat?

Of course, Ive laid everything out.

We sat, he ate his stew, rambling about supplier issues. I nodded, adding peas.

And Mum? I asked, eyes on him. She didnt call today?

James paused, fork in his mouth, then swallowed.

She called briefly this afternoon. The signals dreadful, the connection keeps dropping. She says the treatments are hard, shes tired, she reads books, she misses us.

Poor thing, I said, folding a napkin tightly. Shes lying there, in the middle of nowhere. Hows the weather up there? Rain?

She says its grey and cool. No heat for her, they said it could raise her pressure.

I see. I breathed out slowly. You know, Ive been thinking Maybe we could visit her for the weekend? Bring her some groceries? Its only a fivehour drive.

James choked on his stew, his face flushing.

Emily, youre mad! They dont let anyone in there! Its a restricted facility, almost a quarantine. No visitors. She needs peace; if we show up shell get agitated, her pressure will spike. The doctor strictly forbade it.

Which doctor? I tilted my head. Anyway, its a shame. I was hoping to bake her a cake.

I rose, walked to the table where my laptop lay.

By the way, James, come here. I found a place online, looks lovely. Maybe we could book it for next year?

He shuffled over, a little slower now, his appetite gone.

What is it? Another dream?

I opened the folder of screenshots, expanded the first picture to fill the screen.

Look at this pool, the palms its practically a piece of heaven. And the location? Right in the Midlands, where they say climate change is doing wonders.

James stared at the screen. At first his eyes narrowed, then widened. He recognised the swimsuit, the hat, the glittering chain. He saw his mother, laughing under the sun.

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the hum of the fridge.

What what is this? he croaked, his voice cracking like a roosters.

This? I clicked to the next image, where Mrs. Harper was on the banana boat. This is apparently a therapeutic hydromassage in the open sea. Very good for blood pressure and joints. And here shes dancing, all relaxed, in strict bedrest mode.

James jerked back from the screen, as if burned. He looked at me, his face a mask of dread.

Explain, I said calmly. Im listening. Tell me how we sit in this stifling city, eating pasta and scrimping on toilet paper, while your dying mother basks in Brighton on the money we set aside for our break?

He searched his eyes.

She she really was ill. The doctor said sea air and iodine would help. But I knew youd object. You keep nagging about saving, about us needing to tighten our belts. And her life was slipping away, Emily! When would she ever see the sea again?

I nagged about saving? I rose slowly, the chair scraping the floor. Youre the one who barred me from buying the ticket. You told me there was no money. You made me feel guilty for wanting a holiday. And then you secretly bought a holiday for her? For £1,500?

Not £1,500! he shouted, trying to defend himself. It was cheaper! And it was my money too! I earn it! I have the right to help my mother!

Your money? I snapped. Who pays the mortgage? Me. Who buys the groceries? Me. Your salary disappears into the car, your gadgets, your rainyday fund, which you just emptied for Mum. We saved together. You stole it.

I didnt steal, I took! She raised me! I owe her!

And what do I owe you? Lies? Hypocrisy? I moved close, my face inches from his. You looked me in the eye and lied about the hospital, about York, about her condition. You made me worry for her, left me with no place to turn. Did you and she mock me? Silly Emily fell for it?

No one laughed! Mum just didnt want a scene! She knows your temper! Youd never agree to give that money for a resort!

Of course I wouldnt! Im a person too! I work nonstop! Why should I foot the bill for your robust, bulllike mother while I rot here in this city?

Dont speak of Mum like that! James clenched his fists. Shes an elderly lady! She needs joy!

Do I not need joy? I said, a bitter smile curving my lips. Honestly, James, it isnt about the cash. Its also about the respect. You treat me as a resource a handy function. Cook, clean, earn, stay silent, hand over. But your mother is sacrosanct. You can lie to her, you can stroll out, but you cannot lie to me.

He muttered, his arguments thinning.

Go on holiday, have a break. When you return, Ill give it back. Ill earn it. Its no tragedy.

Give it back? I shook my head. No, James. Trust isnt something you can repay. Neither is respect. I look at you now and I see not a husband but a craven liar hiding behind his mothers skirt.

I walked to the hallway, opened the wardrobe, and pulled out a suitcase the very one I had intended for the sea.

Where are you going? James blurted, panic flashing. Emily, stop. Lets just sleep. Tomorrows work.

Im not going anywhere, I replied evenly. Its you whos leaving.

What do you mean? he stared, bewildered. Where would I go? This is my flat too!

No, dear. This flat is mine, bought before we married. Youre only listed here, and that too temporarily. Pack your things. Right now.

Youre kicking me out because of Mums trip? Youre serious? he shouted, disbelief evident. Youre a mercenary witch! Money matters more than family!

Money matters more than this family, where Im treated like a fool. Pack or Ill call the police and say youre an unwanted guest.

He raged for ten more minutes, stomping, accusing me of heartlessness, threatening divorce to which I merely nodded, Of course, Ill file tomorrow. He tried to tug at my sympathy, but I sat unmoved, watching him toss shirts into a bag.

Youll regret this! he wailed at the door. Youll be alone! No one needs you with your attitude! And Mum was right, she always said you dont love me!

Tell Mum hello, I said coolly. And ask her not to bring me any souvenirs. I need nothing from your family.

The door slammed. I turned the lock twice, then slipped a chain over it.

Silence settled, the kind I had yearned for,She booked the cheap flight to Cornwall, stepped onto the plane, and felt for the first time in years that the sea was truly hers.