Husband Issues an Ultimatum: His Mother Moves in with Us or It’s Divorce!

Simon slammed his mug onto the saucer with a clang that sounded like a distant church bell. The tea splashed across the tablecloth, spreading a brown stain that looked like a bruise, but Simon didnt even glance at it. His eyes were fixed on Emily, and in them flickered a new, unsettling resolve that she hadnt seen in the fifteen years theyd been married.

Emily froze, a dishtowel clutched in her hand. The kitchen became a hush, broken only by the low hum of the fridge and the ticking of the wall clock above the door. She thought shed misheard. Move in? Divorce? Just that morning theyd been debating which wallpaper would look best in the hallway, and now he was laying down conditions like a judge.

Simon, are you serious? she asked softly, slipping the towel over the oven handle. Martha lives two bus stops away. We see her every weekend. Whats the problem? What loneliness? She has three neighbours she chats with, she sings in the veterans choir and does Nordic walking.

Its hard for her to be alone! Simons voice rose as he rose from his chair. You dont understand. Her blood pressure spikes. What if she has a night attack? Who will fetch a glass of water? The ambulance will be too late. I cant sleep knowing shes stuck in those four walls by herself.

Emily sank wearily onto the chair opposite him. The conversation had been a series of soft hints before, but now it felt like an ultimatum.

Lets think logically, she said. We have a twobedroom flat. One room is our bedroom, the other is my office where I sometimes let James stay when he comes home from university. Where do we put Martha?

In the office, of course, Simon said offhandedly, as if it were the only possible answer. James can stay in a dorm or rent somewhere if he wants comforts. And your computer can go to the bedroom or the kitchen. Its just a laptop, not a factory machine.

Emilys breath caught. The office was her sanctuary. She worked as a remote accountant; she needed quiet, shelves for files, a printer. And James, though studying away, always knew he had a place to return to.

So youre suggesting we evict my son, strip me of my workspace, and cram your motherwho, lets be honest, has a difficult temperamentinto a twelvemetre room? Emily asked, keeping her voice even.

Temperament is temperament! Simon snapped. Shes tough as old boots. Demanding, yes, but she loves order. And shes my mother! She raised me, didnt sleep through nights. I owe her a decent old age. Youre being selfish, just caring about your own comfort.

He stormed out, slamming the kitchen door. Emily stared at the untouched meatloaf and mash that Simon loved so much. Her appetite vanished.

Martha, at sixtyeight, was a bloom of energy. Her voice boomed like a school headmistresss, and she carried the certainty of someone who had never been wrong. Hard to be alone meant, in her world, no one to nag me all day.

Emily began clearing the table, the phrase Martha or divorce looping in her mind. Could fifteen years truly be erased because of a mothers whim? Martha had no grave illnesses, only the common hypertension that half the country managed with pills.

The night stretched on in oppressive silence. Simon turned his back to the wall, pulling a blanket over his ears. Emily lay awake, watching the streetlamp cast dancing shadows on the ceiling. She recalled how theyd bought the flat: a modest deposit from her parents, a joint mortgage, but shed shouldered most of the payments because her career had taken off. Simon worked as a carshowroom managersteady but unremarkable. Now he was treating the square metres as his personal fiefdom.

Morning offered no relief. Simon, lacing his shoes in the hallway, announced, I need an answer by tonight. Martha has already started packing. If youre against it, Ill pack my things and move in with her.

The door slammed. Emily slipped down the wall onto a pouf, feeling the decision had already been made behind her back. Shes already packing sounded like a conspiracy.

All day Emilys reports blurred. Numbers swam. She called her friend Ivy.

Emily, have you lost your mind? Ivy shouted. A motherinlaw in a twobedroom flat? Thats the end of everything! Youll be driven out. Shes that kind of beastfirst she takes the office, then the kitchen, then the bedroom, all with advice you cant refuse.

Emily knew Ivy was right, but the fear of tearing the family apart held her. Fifteen years, memories, habits. Would Simon really leave?

That evening Simon returned with a bouquet of chrysanthemumsa bad omen, she thought. He always gave flowers when he felt hed won a battle and wanted to sweeten the victory.

Emily, what are you thinking? he said, slipping into the kitchen where she was slicing salad. His voice was gentle, coaxing. I know its tough, but trust me, this will be better for everyone. Martha will have someone to look after, well have peace. Shell help around, cook, and youll be free from the house chores.

Simon, Emily set the knife down, did you ask your mother what she plans to do with her threebedroom house if she moves in with us permanently?

Simon hesitated, eyes flickering away.

Well why let an empty flat sit? We could rent it out. The rent would go into the budget, maybe help with her medication or a spa retreat.

Ah, a business plan, Emily thought, a thin smile forming. Alright.

Simons face lit up.

Youre on board! I knew you were golden!

Ill try, but with conditions, Emily said firmly. Twoweek trial. If my life turns into hell, we revert. My office stays my office. Martha sleeps on the pullout sofa in the sitting roomfor now. Well see then.

Simons eyebrows rose.

What sitting room? Thats the hallway! She needs quiet!

We dont have a proper sitting room, Simon. The office doubles as a guest space, with the sofa there. James will be back for exams in a month; hell need a place too.

Fine, fine, Simon waved his hands. Well sort it out later. Ill tell Mum, pick her up Saturday morning.

Saturday split Emilys life into before and after.

Martha arrived not with two suitcases but with a minibus packed to the brim: boxes, bags of ficus, her beloved rocking chair that claimed half the office, blocking the bookcase.

Now well live happily! she announced, placing a heavy icon on the hallway table. Emily, stop standing like a statue. Grab the bagsthere are jars of pickles, dont smash them, my special recipe, not your supermarket junk.

Emily swallowed the sarcasm and began unpacking.

Two hours later, the first clash erupted. Emily was buried in paperwork when the door burst open.

Martha, wheres the big saucepan? the old woman demanded, eyeing the room like a landlord. And whats that dust on the monitor? Are you breathing filth?

Im working, Martha, Emily replied without turning. The saucepan is in the lower right drawer. Please knock before you enter.

Martha muttered, Knocking, my dear, you should knock, but left the door ajar. Simons hungry, and you stare at the screen. A wife should meet her husband with a hot meal, not sit twiddling.

Emily inhaled deeply, hit save, and walked to the kitchen. Chaos reigned. Martha had rearranged spice jars, shoved the coffee machine off the counterjust a bit of space, dearand was frying something that smoked.

Martha, why did you move the coffee machine? Simon and I need it every morning.

Its bad for the heart! I brought chicory, its healthy. Well drink chicory. Ive put the machine in a box on the balcony.

That evening Simon devoured Marthas greasy meatballs, while Emily poked at a salad.

Delicious, Mum! he praised. Emily only does steamed, ovencooked stuff, healthy food, boring.

Martha waved it off. Just try for the husband, love. You youngsters think only of careers. By the way, Simon, your towels are stiff. Ive fetched my fluffy ones. Your rags are going out.

Emily nearly choked. Those are Egyptiancotton, brandnew. What rags?

Dont argue with mother, Simon snapped. Mum knows best, shes an experienced housekeeper.

That phrase became the weeks motto.

Martha was everywhere. She turned the TV up to deafening volume when Emily tried to finish a quarterly report. She barged into the bathroom under the pretense of just grabbing a towel. She critiqued Emilys outfit, hair, even the way she spoke.

Simon regressed into a tenyearold boy, refusing to wash dishes (Mum will do it), never taking out the rubbish, but each night he complained to his mother about his boss while she patted his head and slipped him pastries. Emily became invisible, or at best a nuisance.

Wednesday, Emily returned from the shop to find her desk moved to the window, replaced by the rocking chair and a TV.

Brighter! Martha declared. I can watch my shows better from here.

Mrs. Whitfield, Emilys voice trembled, this is my office. Who gave you permission to move my furniture?

Simon did! Martha crowed. Hes the master of the house. He told me, Mum, do as you like.

Emily stormed into the bedroom where Simon lay scrolling on his phone.

What are you doing? she hissed. Why did you let her move my desk? The sun hits the monitor directly!

Emily, dont start, he muttered. Mum has been home all day, she wants comfort. Close the curtains, be flexible. Youre a wise woman.

Wise woman will pack your things, Simon.

Again with the threats? he sat up. You wont divorce over a desk. Thats absurd.

Its not just the desk, Emily snapped. Its that you dont hear me, you dont respect me.

Friday came. Emily took a halfday off to visit the tax office, but returned early, slipping the front door open with her key.

From the kitchen came Marthas loud voice on the phone, apparently on speaker, chatting with her sister Val.

Oh Val, lovely! Im living like a saints cottage. Simon runs around me, the daughterinlaw whines, but Ive got the place. I signed a contract for three students, £400 a month plus bills. Imagine, Im a wealthy daughterinlaw now!

What about the flat? Val asked.

Signed yesterday. Students, three of them. Income! Ill use the money for a holiday in the spa, new teeth, a proper life! No need to be fed or pay rent. My blood pressure? Fine. Im fine!

Emily stood in the hallway, keys biting her palm. The picture clicked: no loneliness, no fearjust cold calculation. Rent the flat, live on a pension, let the soninlaw fund the dream. Simon was merely a pawn, the poor, sympathetic lad.

She let the anger melt into icy composure. She walked to the bedroom, opened Simons massive suitcase, and began stuffing his socks inside.

Martha peeked in.

Planning to leave already? she asked, eyes narrowing at the open suitcase.

Packing my husbands things, Emily replied calmly, pulling out a drawer of his socks.

Youre mad! Where is he going?

To your threebedroom house, Martha. With you. Today.

Youre moving into my flat? There are tenants! Martha gasped.

Tenants? Students paying £400 each? Thatll cover your teeth and the spa, wont it? Emily shot back, standing tall.

Marthas face flushed red.

Youve been eavesdropping?

I came home and heard enough.

The front door burst open. Simon stepped in, eyes widening at the open suitcase and the fury radiating from his mother.

Whats happening? Emily, where are you going?

Its not me, Simon. Its you and your mum.

What do you mean? he laughed nervously, not yet grasping the storm.

No jokes. Your mum just bragged to her sister how shes tricked you. She isnt scared, she just wants to rent her flat and live off our money. And you, the sympathetic fool, are just a pawn in her scheme.

Simon turned to Martha, who straightened and launched an attack.

Im a mother! I have a right to help! Ive rented the flat! Why should I count pennies for a pension? You young ones will earn! Simon, make your wife disappear, Ill find a nice, compliant one. Ill live with you if you throw me out of my own house. I have students maybe well find something else.

Simon stared at his mother as if seeing her for the first time. The myth of the saintly, helpless old lady crumbled, revealing a calculating, selfish figure.

Emily he whispered, reaching for her hand. I didnt know. Lets talk. Mum will leave. Right now. Pack up. Go home. Kick the students out.

I wont go anywhere! Martha shrieked. I have a contract! Penalties! Im registered no, Im not, but Im a mother! I deserve to live with my son!

Fine, you can stay with my son, Emily cut. But not in my flat. Simon, remember your ultimatum? Martha or divorce. I choose divorce. Ive endured a week of this nightmare, your accusations, your transformation into a doormat. Im done. I want my house, my office, my coffee from my own machine. No more of you.

Dont be ridiculous! Simon finally panicked. Everyone makes mistakes. I love you!

You love your comfort and your mother, not me. Leave.

Emily zipped up the suitcase, rolled it down the corridor.

Give Martha an hour to pack her things. Call a van, or do it yourself.

Youll regret this! Martha wailed, clutching at her chest. Youll be a useless spinster at fortyfive! An old maid with a trailer!

James is an adult, Im still young, Emily replied evenly. Better to be alone than with such bliss.

The packing was loud and endless. Martha cursed Emily to the seventh generation, tried to reclaim a set of towels shed given as a gift, demanded reimbursement for groceries spent on her meatloaves. Simon, face flushed with shame, lugged boxes into the lift, his attempts at conversation deadened by Emilys icy stare.

When the door finally closed behind them, Emily locked it with both the deadbolt and the chain, pressing her forehead to the cold metal.

Silence. A divine, ringing silence. No clatter of pans, no droning television, no whispered arguments.

Emily moved to the kitchen, retrieved her coffee machine from the balcony box, lovingly wiped it, and placed it back on the counter. She switched it on; the scent of fresh coffee flooded the flat, displacing the burntoil odor and the stale presence of old age.

She trudged to the office, dragged the heavy rocking chair into a corner, restored her desk, and opened her laptop.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Simon: Emily, were at Aunt Vals. Mums having a fit. Sorry. Can we talk when things calm? I dont want to lose you.

Emily read, paused, and pressed Block.

She sipped her coffee, walked to the window. Rain began to patter outside, but her heart felt bright. She knew the road ahead would be roughdivorce, division of assets (the car, the garage, a premarriage flat), gossip in the neighborhoodbut she had saved the most important thing: herself and her home.

She took a long swallow of coffee, its taste never sweeter. Ahead lay quiet weekends, entirely hers. That was the best gift she could give herself.

The next day she called her son.

Hey, Mum, hows Dad?

Dad and Mum live separately now, James.

No waydid you finally kick them out? James laughed, relief in his voice. Honestly, I didnt want to visit while she was around. Shes a bit overbearing. Come over, my rooms free.

Come on then, lad. Your space is waiting.

Emily hung up, smiling. Life rolled on, and she would be fineno more ultimatums.