Feel free to speak poorly of your mum all you want, but if you dare utter a single word against my mother that rubs me the wrong way—you’ll be out of my flat in an instant! I won’t be walking on eggshells around you, my dear!

Go on and trash your mum all you like, but if you utter another word about my mother that I dont likeyoure out of my flat this instant! I wont be dancing around you, love!

Ian, forgive me, please, if Im intruding, Margarets voice was soft, almost apologetic, as if she were begging for a favour that might never be granted. She stood in the kitchen doorway, her dry, spotted hands clasped together. The door to my room it squeaks horrendously. I got up in the night for a glass of water and nearly leapt out of my skin. Could you oil it when you have a moment? If its not too much trouble, of course.

Ian didnt glance up from his phone. He was stretched out on the sofa that merged the living room and kitchen, lazily scrolling a news feed with his thumb. In response to his motherinlaws request he let out a low, guttural soundhalf yeah and half leave me be. It was enough for Margaret to know shed been heard; she slipped back to her room, pulling the door shut behind her. A long, mournful groan rose from the hinges.

Emily, who was wiping the countertop at that instant, tensed. The flat, never particularly welcoming, seemed to grow heavier, as if some of the air had been sucked out. All week her mother had been staying, and Ian wore the expression of a man with a jackhammer pounding nonstop against his windows. He never raised his voice; instead he radiated a silent, sticky displeasure. Every little sound irritated him: the rustle of the newspaper his mother read, the faint scent of herbal tea in the hallway, even how long, in his view, she lingered in the bathroom each morning. He kept quiet, but that silence was louder than any shout.

He set the phone down with a thud like a stone.

Your old hag is going to tell me how to run this house now, he muttered, his words thick with bile. Emily flinched. He stared at the wall as if addressing an invisible ally who would understand his plight.

She just asked, Ian, Emily tried to keep her voice steady. She set the cloth aside and turned to him. The door really does creak so badly it wakes you at night. I meant to ask you myselfI just forgot.

She just asked, he mimicked, twisting his lips into a sour grin. Of course. Shes turned this flat into a spa for herself. She slumps on the couch, then starts laying down the rules. Oil the door, then what? Turn the telly down when she decides to rest? Tiptoe around?

It was petty and cruel. Margaret stayed as quiet as a mouse. She left her room only to eat or visit the doctor. Most of the time she sat in there so as not to, God forbid, disturb the young. She feared being a burdenyou could feel it in every movement, every soft word.

Please stop. Shes here for a week, for tests. It isnt forever, Emily said, moving to the sofa, still hoping to steer things back to peace. She already feels sorry that shes in our way.

In our way? Ian finally turned his head, his eyes cold with ingrained irritation. Its me shes cramping! I cant relax in my own home! Im always thinking someones behind the wall listening, expecting something. Always that smell of medicine. Always that disapproving stare. Nothing suits her.

He rose, crossed into the kitchen, opened the fridge, stared into it aimlessly, then slammed the door shut.

Exactly. A whole week of this farce. And let that door keep creaking. Maybe then shell stay in her den less often.

With that, he grabbed his headphones, shoved them on, and collapsed back onto the sofa, disappearing into his phone. It was more than a fight. It was an ultimatum wrapped in total indifference. Emily was left standing alone in the kitchen. From the hallway the plaintive creak returnedher mother heading to the bathroom. The sound grated on Emily worse than any insult.

Evening thickened into a dense, inky gloom. Dinner passed in near silence, broken only by the delicate clink of cutlery. Margaret ate her portion of mashed peas and a chicken schnitzel with guilty speed, thanked them, and almost fled back to her room. The sharp squeak of the door this time sounded like the final chord of a funeral march. Ian and Emily were left alone at the table. He finished his food, chewing loudly to show nothing bothered him. She picked at her cooling schnitzel.

Ian, we need to talk, Emily began, setting her fork down. Her voice was even, almost pleading. She made one last appeal to his reason.

What about? He didnt look up. I think I made everything perfectly clear this afternoon. My position hasnt changed.

Your position? She barely held back a bitter smile. Your position is to torment an elderly woman with silence and passive aggressionsomeone whos only here out of necessity? Thats not a position, Ian. Thats pettiness.

He dropped his fork onto the plate; the clatter was loud and ugly.

Pettiness? Pettiness is dragging her here for a whole week and pretending nothings happening! She wanders about with that look as if we owe her our lives. Always sighing, always dissatisfied. Today its the door; tomorrow shell decide Im breathing too loudly. This will never end!

She hasnt said a word to you! Shes afraid to leave the room!

Exactly! She does everything silently! Thats worse! She looks at me like Im a piece of rubbish in her way! Thats her signature moveI can smell it a mile off. Always suffering, always the victim so everyone feels guilty. My mothers the same. One for one. Always dissatisfied, always reproaching with just a glance. And you know what, Emily? The apple doesnt fall far from the tree

He didnt finish. Emily rose slowly from the table. Something in her face shifted so sharply that Ian instinctively fell silent midsentence. The warmth left her eyes, leaving two dark, unreadable wells. The calm she had so carefully maintained crumbled to dust, replaced by something cold, sharp, and dangerous.

What did you say? she whispered, a threat quieter than a scream.

Not yet grasping the magnitude of the change, Ian smirked, a clammy chill rising inside him. He thought hed broken through her defences and should strike while the iron was hot.

Exactly what I said. Youre becoming her exact copy. The same constant dissatisfaction, disguised as

He was cut off again. She stepped around the table, standing right in front of him, close enough that he could see a tiny scar on her brow. Her face was like a mask carved from pale marble.

Go on and trash your mum all you like, but if you utter another word about my mother that I dont likeyoure out of my flat this instant. I wont be dancing around you, love.

She leaned even closer, her eyes drilling into his.

You live here. In MY flat. You eat the food I cook. You sleep in the bed I bought. You enjoy my hospitality. Up till now I considered you my husband. Right now youre just a lodger. A lodger whos forgotten his place. So let me remind you. One more crooked wordone sidelong glancetoward my mother, and your things will be in the stairwell. Do you understand me?

Ian stared at her, unable to utter a word. His brain refused to process it. The woman who minutes earlier had begged for peace was now a strangera merciless figure who, with absolute calm, announced the terms of his continued existence. Instinctively he shrank back until his spine hit the wall. The power in the house had shifted, finally and irrevocably.

He didnt answer. He couldnt have, even if he wanted to. Her words were not just a threatthey were a statement of fact, a cold, final sentence. All his swagger, all his feigned headofhousehold pomp fell away like cheap gilt, leaving behind a bewildered, humiliated man. He looked at Emily, and there was nothing in her eyes to latch onto: no anger, no hurt, not even hatred. Only emptinessthe efficient, icy emptiness of someone who has just erased you from her life and is now dealing with the logistics of your continued presence. Slowly, like an old man, he edged away and sank back onto the chair he had just leapt from.

Without granting him another glance, Emily turned away. She returned to the table, silently lifted his plate and hers, and carried them to the sink. Her movements were precise and economical, as if performing a longlearned task. She turned on the tap. Hot water hissed over the dirty dishes. She took a sponge, squeezed a drop of detergent onto it, and began to wash the plates in steady circles. The squeak of the sponge on ceramic, the rush of waterordinary household sounds became deafening in the new silence. They were a declaration. A declaration that the incident was over. The conversation was finished. Lifeher lifewould continue on her terms.

Ian sat motionless, staring at his wifes back. He felt gutted. His entire sense of himselfas a man, as head of the familyhad been crushed and ground into the kitchen linoleum. He had always thought this flat was his. Yes, it had come to Emily from her grandmother, but he lived here, slept in this bedhe was her husband, after all. Turns out that was an illusion. He wasnt a husband; he was a guest. A guest whose right to stay had just been called into question.

Emily washed the dishes, set them neatly in the rack, and dried her hands. Then she walked past him without a glance and went into the bedroom. A couple of minutes later she emerged with a blanket and a pillow and dropped them silently on the sofa. It wasnt done in malice or provocation. It was like tossing down a mat for a dog, assigning it a place for the night. Then she returned to the bedroom and closed the door behind her. The click of the lock sounded like a gunshot in the flats hush.

The night stretched long. Ian didnt sleep. He lay on the sofawhich suddenly felt foreign and uncomfortableand stared at the ceiling. Humiliation burned in him with a cold fire, refusing to let him drift off. He replayed her words, her look, her calm, cruel actions. The more he thought, the more a dark, impotent rage boiled inside him.

Morning brought no relief. It brought a new reality, woven of silence and demonstrative disregard. Emily emerged already dressed, ready to go. She went to the kitchen, put the kettle on, took yoghurt and cottage cheese from the fridge. She moved through her territory with confidence and ease. Ian rose from the sofa feeling rumpled and sore. He went to the kitchen too, hoping for a cup of coffee, some return to a semblance of normal.

Emily poured boiling water into two mugs. In one she dropped a chamomile tea bag; into the other she spooned sugar. Then she took both mugs and, without a word, carried them into her mothers room. The door closed behind her, this time without a creakapparently she held it from inside so as not to disturb the flats peace. Ian was left standing at the empty table. There was no coffee for him. He wasnt part of this morning. He was furniture. A piece of décor.

Ten minutes later Emily emerged with her mother. Margaret was pale, looking as if she hadnt slept at all. She didnt look at Ian; her eyes were fixed on the floor.

Mom, are you ready? We should be off to the clinic soon, Emilys voice was even, drained of colour. She spoke to her mother as if Ian didnt exist in the room.

They dressed in the hallway. Emily helped her mother fasten her coat and straighten the scarf around her neck. That quiet, tender care was another punch to Ians gut. It was a demonstration. This is who she loves. This is who matters. And you are nothing. When the front door shut behind them, Ian was left alone in a deafeningly quiet flat. He walked slowly into the kitchen and looked at the door to his motherinlaws room, the spot where it had all begun. Something misshapen and vicious stirred in his soul, promising this was far from over.

They came back near noon, tired and silent. Ian heard the key turn in the lock and tensed on the sofa. He had spent the entire day in that silent flat, which had turned into a torture chamber for him. Every piece of furniture seemed to mock him, reminding him of his degraded position. He hadnt turned on the TV or listened to music. He simply sat there nursing his rage, stoking it to a white heat. He waited. He didnt know for what exactly, but he felt an explosion was inevitable.

Emily and Margaret returned carrying the faint, sterile smell of the clinic. Emily went straight to the kitchen to set down her bag, and her mother, slowly, with a certain elderly caution, took off her coat in the hallway. She saw Ian, and fear flashed across her face. She quickly looked away and tried to slip into her room.

Mom, lets have lunchIll heat it up quickly, Emily called matteroffactly from the kitchen. She still acted as if Ian didnt exist.

Lunch, like the previous nights dinner, passed in oppressive silence. Emily set bowls of soup on the tablefor herself, for her mother, and, after a brief hesitation, for Ian. It wasnt a gesture of reconciliation. It was mechanical, as if she were feeding a cat. Ian ate without a word, feeling the food stick in his throat. He watched his motherinlaw. She ate with her head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and that submissive, beaten posture infuriated him even more.

When the soup was finished, Margaret got up and went to the kettle. She brewed tea in her cup and then, mustering courage, took another cup, dropped a sachet of herbs into it, and poured boiling water. She came to the table and, hand trembling, set the cup in front of Ian.

This this is for the nerves, Ian. A calming blend, she whispered, not daring to raise her eyes. Drink ityou must be having a hard time

That was the last straw. Her pity, her attempt at care, which he took as the height of hypocrisy and mockery. A sick, feeble old woman pitying him, trying to teach him how to live. Ian slowly raised his head. His face twisted into an ugly, spiteful grin.

Hard? Its hard for me? he said quietly, but with such icy hatred that Margaret recoiled. Yes, its hard for me. Its hard to breathe the same air as you, you old hag. You came here to die, didnt you? Came for tests to find out how much longer youve got to foul this sky and poison other peoples lives?

Emily froze with a plate in her hands, but she stayed silent. She let him finish.

A calming blend? he spat, pushing the cup away. Youd better brew it for yourself. A double dose. So you wont creak your bones any more and wont ask me to oil your hinges. You think youre a guest here? Youre not a guest. Youre mould. A burden. That your darling daughter dragged into MY house so Id have to bow and scrape to you!

He stood, looming over the table, and addressed the petrified woman directly.

You were nothing your whole life, and youll die a nobody. A pitiful, sick old woman whos nothing but trouble to everyone. And the sooner that happens, the better for everybody. Especially for your daughter, who has to drag you around hospitals instead of living a normal life.

He was done. Dead silence fell in the kitchen. He breathed hard, expecting screams, tears, a scene. None came. Emily slowly set the plate down. Her face was perfectly calm, unreadable. She looked at him the way one looks at an insect just before crushing it. Then she stood, walked past him into the hallway. Ian, grinning in triumph, waited for the next act.

She didnt go to the bedroom. She went to the front door, turned the key, and flung it wide. Then she returned to the kitchen doorway and looked at Ian.

Out, she said. Her voice was quiet, leaving no room for argument.

Ian was taken aback.

What?

I said out. Right now. In whatever youre wearing.

His face went slack. He couldnt believe it. This wasnt a bluff.

Are you are you serious? Youre throwing me out?

I warned you, she answered in that same even tone. One more word about my mother, and youd be out. You said your word. Now its your move. The door is open.

She stood and waited, unmoving. Her calm was more frightening than any fury. Ian looked around the kitchenhis plate, his motherinlaw frozen in shock, Emily standing in the doorway like a guard. He saw nothing in her eyes. No chance, no regret, no possibility of setting anything right. Only emptiness. He understood he had lost. Completely. Slowly, as if in a dream, he rose, walked around the table, and headed for the door. He passed her, feeling her cold, watchful gaze on him. He stepped over the threshold.

Ill be back, and youll both regret this! he shouted.

Without another word, Emily closed the door behind him. One lock clicked. Then a second. She turned and looked at her mother, who sat with her face in her hands. She immediately pulled out her phone and called aThe next morning, the locksmith arrived, changed the locks, and locked Ian out for good.