Go on and talk trash about your mum all you want, but if you dare to say a single word against my mum that I take issue with—you’ll be out of my flat in an instant! I won’t be walking on eggshells around you, my dear!

Go ahead and badmouth your mum all you like, but if you say even one word about my mother that I dont likeyoure out of my flat this instant! I wont be tiptoeing around you, love!

James, Im sorry to bother you, Eleanors voice is low and apologetic, as if shes asking for a favor she knows is a huge inconvenience. She stands in the kitchen doorway, her dry, spotted hands clasped together. The door to my room creaks horrifically. I get up at night for a glass of water and nearly jump out of my skin. Could you oil it when you have a moment? If its not too much trouble, of course.

James doesnt even look up from his phone. Hes stretched out on the sofa in the openplan kitchenliving area, lazily scrolling through a news feed with his thumb. In response to his motherinlaws request he makes a vague, throaty soundsomething between yeah and leave me alone. Thats enough for Eleanor to know shes been heard; she retreats to her room and shuts the door, a long, groaning squeal echoing from the hinges.

Emma, who is wiping down the counter, tenses. The atmosphere in the flatnever very welcomingfeels heavier, as if some air has been sucked out. All week her mother has been staying, and James wears an expression like a jackhammer pounding nonstop against his window. He doesnt throw outright fights, no. He radiates a silent, sticky displeasure. Everything irks him: the soft rustle of the newspaper his mother reads each evening, the faint smell of her medication in the hallway, even how long, in his view, she occupies the bathroom in the mornings. He stays quiet, but that silence is louder than any shout.

He drops his phone on the sofa with a sound like a stone hitting the floor.

Your old hag is going to tell me what to do in this house now, he says quietly, his words laced with bile, and Emma flinches. He stares at the wall as if speaking to an invisible ally who would understand and back him up.

She just asked, James, Emma tries to keep her voice calm. She puts down the cloth and turns 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 mimics, twisting his lips into a sour smile. Of course. Shes got everything set up here like a spa. She shows up, sprawls out, now shes laying down the rules. Oil the door, then what? Turn the TV down when she deigns to rest? Tiptoe around?

It feels petty and unfair. Eleanor remains as quiet as a mouse, leaving her room only to eat or go to the doctor. Most of the time she stays in there so as not to, God forbid, disturb the young. She fears being a burdenyou can feel it in every movement, every soft word.

Please stop. Shes here for a week for tests. Its not forever, Emma says, moving to the sofa, still hoping to steer things back to peace. She already feels bad that shes in our way.

In our way? James finally turns his head, and in his eyes Emma sees a cold, 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 stands, walks into the kitchen, opens the fridge, stares into it aimlessly, then slams the door shut.

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

He grabs his headphones, puts them on deliberately, and collapses back onto the sofa, disappearing into his phone. Its worse than a fight. Its an ultimatum disguised as total indifference. Emma is left standing alone in the kitchen. From the hallway the plaintive creak returnsher mother is heading to the bathroom. That sound grates on her worse than any insult.

Evening turns into a thick, inky gloom. Dinner passes in near silence, broken only by the delicate clink of cutlery. Eleanor eats her portion of mash and a chicken cutlet with guilty speed, thanks them, and almost rushes back to her room. The piercing creak of the door now sounds like the final chord of a funeral march. Emma and James are left alone at the table. He finishes his food, chewing with exaggerated appetite, ostentatiously showing that nothing bothers him. She merely picks at her cooling cutlet.

James, we need to talk, Emma begins, setting her fork down. Her voice is even, almost pleading. She makes one last attempt to appeal to his reason.

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

Your position? She barely holds back a bitter smile. Your position is to torment an elderly person with silence and passive aggressionsomeone who came into a strange flat out of necessity? Thats not a position, James. Thats pettiness.

He drops his fork onto the plate with a loud, ugly clatter.

Pettiness? Pettiness is dragging her here for a whole week and pretending nothings happening! She walks around with that look like we owe her for life. 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 step out of the room!

Exactly! She does everything silently! Thats worse! She looks at me like Im a piece of rubbish getting in her darlings 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 look. And you know what, Emma? The apple doesnt fall far from the tree

He doesnt finish. Emma rises slowly from the table. Something in her face shifts sharply, and James instinctively falls silent midsentence. Warmth leaves her eyes, replaced by dark, unreadable wells. The calm she had so carefully maintained crumbles to dust, and in its place appears something cold, sharp, and very dangerous.

What did you say? she asks, a whisper more frightening than any scream.

Not yet grasping the scale of the change, James smirks, though a clammy chill rises deep inside. He decides hes broken through her defenses and should strike while the iron is hot.

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

He doesnt finish again. She steps around the table and stands right in front of him, close enough to see a tiny scar on her eyebrow. Her face looks like a mask carved from pale marble.

Go badmouth your mum all you like, but if you say even one more word about my mother that I dont likeyoure out of my flat this instant. I wont stand on ceremony with you, love.

She leans 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?

James stares at her, unable to utter a word. His brain refuses to process it. The woman who minutes ago begged him for peace is gone. In her place stands a strangera merciless person who has just, with absolute calm, announced the terms of his continued existence. Instinctively he shrinks back until his spine hits the wall. The power in this home has just shifted, finally and irrevocably.

He doesnt answer. He cant, even if he wanted to. The words thrown at him are not just a threattheyre a statement of fact, a cold, final sentence. All his swagger, all his feigned headofhousehold pomp falls away like cheap gilding, leaving behind a bewildered, humiliated man. He looks at Emma, and there is 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 technicalities of your continued presence. Slowly, like an old man, he edges away and sinks back onto the chair he just leapt from.

Without giving him another glance, Emma turns away. She returns to the table, silently picks up his plate and hers, and carries them to the sink. Her movements are precise and economical, as if performing a longlearned task. She turns on the tap. Hot water hisses over the dirty dishes. She takes a sponge, squeezes a drop of detergent onto it, and begins to wash the plates in steady circles. The squeak of the sponge on ceramic, the rush of waterthese ordinary household sounds become deafening in the new silence. They are a declaration that the incident is over. The conversation is finished. Lifeher lifewill continue on her terms.

James sits motionless, staring at his wifes back. He feels gutted. His entire sense of himselfas a man, as head of the familyhas been crushed and ground into the kitchen linoleum. He always thought this flat was his. Yes, it came from Emmas grandmother, but he lives here, sleeps in this bedhe is her husband, after all. Turns out that was an illusion. He isnt a husband; hes a guest. A guest whose right to stay has just been called into question.

Emma washes the dishes, sets them neatly in the rack, and dries her hands. Then she walks past him without a glance and goes into the bedroom. A few minutes later she returns with a blanket and a pillow and drops them silently on the sofa. It isnt done in malice or provocation; its like tossing down a mat for a dog, assigning it a place for the night. She then returns to the bedroom and closes the door behind her. The click of the lock sounds like a gunshot in the flats hush.

The night is long. James doesnt sleep. He lies on the sofawhich suddenly feels foreign and uncomfortableand stares at the ceiling. Humiliation burns in him with a cold fire, refusing to let him drift off. He replays her words, her look, her calm, cruel actions. The more he thinks, the more a dark, impotent rage boils inside him.

Morning brings no relief. It brings a new reality, woven of silence and demonstrative disregard. Emma emerges from the bedroom already dressed, ready to go. She heads to the kitchen, puts the kettle on, takes yoghurt and cottage cheese from the fridge. She moves through her territory with confidence and ease. James gets up from the sofa feeling rumpled and sore. He goes to the kitchen too, hoping for a cup of coffee, some return to a semblance of normal.

Emma pours boiling water into two cups. In one she drops a chamomile tea bag; into the other she adds a spoonful of sugar. Then she takes both cups and, without a word, carries them into her mothers room. The door closes behind her, this time without a creakshe holds it from inside so as not to disturb the flats peace. James is left standing at the empty table. There is no coffee for him. He isnt part of this morning. He is furniture. A piece of the décor.

Ten minutes later Emma emerges with her mother. Eleanor is pale and looks as if she hasnt slept all night. She doesnt look toward James; her eyes are fixed on the floor.

Mom, are you ready? We should be off to the doctor soon, Emmas voice is even, drained of any colour. She speaks to her mother as if James doesnt exist in the room.

They dress in the hallway. Emma helps her mother fasten her coat and straighten the scarf around her neck. That quiet, tender care is another punch to Jamess gut. Its a demonstration. This is who she loves. This is who matters. And you are nothing. When the front door shuts behind them, James is left alone in a deafeningly quiet flat. He walks slowly into the kitchen and looks at the door to his motherinlaws roomthe door where it all began. Something misshapen and vicious stirs in his soul, promising this is far from over.

They return close to noon, tired and silent. James hears the key turn in the lock and tenses on the sofa. He has spent the entire day in that quiet flat, which has turned into a torture chamber for him. Every piece of furniture seems to mock him, reminding him of his degraded position. He hasnt turned on the TV or listened to music. He simply sits there nursing his rage, stoking it to a white heat. He waits. He doesnt know for what exactly, but he feels an explosion is inevitable.

Emma and Eleanor come back carrying the faint, sterile smell of the clinic. Emma goes straight to the kitchen to set down her bag, and her mother, slowly, with a certain elderly caution, removes her coat in the hallway. She sees James, and fear flashes across her face. She quickly looks away and tries to slip into her room.

Mom, lets have lunchIll heat it up quickly, Emma calls matteroffactly from the kitchen. She still acts as if James doesnt exist.

Lunch, like the previous nights dinner, passes in oppressive silence. Emma sets bowls of soup on the tablefor herself, for her mother, and, after a hesitant pause, for James. It isnt a gesture of reconciliation. Its mechanical, as if she were feeding a cat. James eats without a word, feeling the food stick in his throat. He watches his motherinlaw eat with her head down, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, and that submissive, beaten posture infuriates him even more.

When the soup is finished, Eleanor gets up and goes to the kettle. She brews tea in her cup and then, mustering courage, takes another cup, drops a sachet of herbs into it, and pours in boiling water. She comes to the table and, her hand trembling, sets the cup in front of James.

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

That is the last straw. Her pity, her attempt at care, strikes him as the height of hypocrisy and mockery. A sick, feeble old woman pitying him, teaching him how to live. James slowly raises his head. His face twists into an ugly, spiteful grin.

Hard? Its hard for me? he says quietly, but with such icy hatred that Eleanor recoils. 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?

Emma freezes with a plate in her hands, but she stays silent. She lets him finish.

A calming blend? he snaps, 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 I have to bow and scrape to you!

He stands, looming over the table, and addresses the petrified, terrified 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 is done. Dead silence falls in the kitchen. He breathes hard, expecting screams, tears, a scene. Nothing comes. Emma slowly sets the plate down. Her face is perfectly calm, unreadable. She looks at him the way one looks at an insect just before crushing it. Then she stands without a word, walks past him into the hallway. James, grinning in triumph, waits for the next act.

She doesnt go to the bedroom. She goes to the front door, turns the key, and flings it wide. Then she returns to the kitchen doorway and looks at James.

Out, she says. Her voice is quiet, but leaves no room for argument.

James is taken aback.

What?

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

His face goes slack. He cant believe it. This isnt a bluff.

Are you are you serious? Youre throwing me out?

I warned you, she answers 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 stands and waits, unmoving. Her calm is more frightening than any fury. James looks around the kitchenhis plate, his motherinlaw frozen in shock, Emma standing in the doorway like a guard. He sees nothing in her eyes. No chance, no regret, no possibility of fixing anything. Only emptiness. He understands he has lost completely. Slowly, as if in a dream, he stands, walks around the table, and heads for the door. He passes her, feeling her cold, watchful gaze on him. He steps over the threshold.

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

Without another word, Emma closes the door behind him. One lock clicks, then another. She turns and looks at her mother, who sits with her face in her hands. She immediately pulls out her phone and calls a locksmith to change both frontdoor locks first thing in the morning. The flat falls silent, but it is a different kind of silence nowthe silence of scorched earth.