Just Don’t Bring Mum Over, Please,” My Wife Urged

Just dont bring my mum over, Anna said, eyes flicking to the cramped flat they’d managed to squeeze into.

Unless, Paul started hesitantly. Unless we take her here?

What do you mean, Paul? Anna gestured at their sixtysquaremetre threeroom flat. Into the nursery? With Arthur and Polly?

Lying there, bedridden, with pressure sores, duckfeeds and nighttime whines? You want the kids to see that? To breathe it in?

The family of four was winding down for the night.

Anna was wiping a sticky juice stain from the kitchen table, one foot nudging a toy fire engine that fiveyearold Arthur had abandoned in the hallway.

The bathroom was a chorus of water and Paul splashing little Polly, who was barely two.

Through the splash came his deliberately booming laugh and the squeal of his daughter.

Tina smiled, feeling the tension ease. It was a decent evening, nothing out of the ordinary.

Those were the moments she treasured most: mortgage paid on time, a tidy sum building up in the holiday fund, a fridge full, husband and children in good health.

The phone on the windowsill buzzed, sliding a few centimetres across the countertop an unfamiliar number calling.

Anna frowned.

A creditcard advert, or some bank security call at this hour?

She reached for the red button, but her thumb slipped to the green one instead.

Hello?

Oi, Tina? a trembling voice said. Its Aunt Zena, Lauras neighbour from Little Hatchford.

Inside Tinas chest tightened. Hatchford was her motherinlaws village, a place Paul and she had cut out of their lives two years ago.

Good afternoon, Aunt Zena, Anna replied dryly, dropping her voice so Paul wouldnt hear. How did you get my number?

Ah, I found it in Lauras notebook She Oh, dear, the woman sniffed. Tina, its terrible Lauras had an accident.

Anna froze, dishcloth still in hand.

What do you mean had an accident?

On the motorway. She drove into town at night somehow ended up on the opposite lane. The windscreen

Thank goodness the airbags worked; the folks inside survived, but Laura

The car went up in flames, Tina. With the paperwork, everything. They managed to pull her out, but shes shes in a bad way.

Shes in the district hospital now, intensive care.

The water in the bathroom fell silent. The door swung open and Paul emerged, cradling a towelwrapped Polly.

He was smiling, trying to chatter with his daughter, but stopped dead when he saw his wifes face.

Tina? Whats wrong?

Anna pressed the phone to her chest, inhaled.

Aunt Zena, I understand. Well well sort something out. Thank you for calling.

She hung up and turned to Paul.

Paul, put Arthur down. We need to talk.

***

They sat at the kitchen table. The kids, unusually swift, were already in bed both Arthur and Polly sensed something was off.

Paul sat with his hands clasped tight.

So shes alive, he muttered, staring out the darkened window.

The doctor said her condition is serious but stable, Anna said, twirling the phone. Her hip its a mess, Paul. The bones shattered. Ribs, neck theyll need operations, but

But what?

The doctor was blunt: shes bedridden. Minimum six months if everything fuses properly. Given her age and how shes always looked after herself it could be longer.

Paul winced.

The car burnt completely?

Right down to the chassis. The papers too. Aunt Zena couldnt figure out how Laura ended up on the wrong side of the road. Maybe she felt unwell, maybe she got distracted.

Paul paced the tiny kitchen two steps forward, two back.

Two years, he said, to no one in particular. Two years we lived quietly. We finally started breathing easy, no more endless calls, no whining, no mess

How could she torment you? Demand the flat, forbid us from putting it in our name

She called Arthur a whippingboy

Anna shuffled over, gave Paul a rueful smile.

Paul, whatever the past, we need a decision. The doctors waiting for an answer.

Tomorrow theyll move her from ICU to a trauma ward. Shell need care.

The nurses there are free, but only once a day.

Paul lifted his head.

What kind of care, Tina? You expect me to quit my job and become a fulltime carer? Or you quit yours?

We just got on our feet. We have plans. We wanted a new car, pay for the kids activities.

Theres an option for a livein carer, Anna began cautiously.

Youve seen the price, havent you? Paul cut in. A roundtheclock carer costs about £600 a week, at least. Add meds, nappies, food Thats practically my whole salary, Tina. Or yours.

I know.

So how are we supposed to live? Subsisting on porridge forever? For whom? For the woman who turned me into a grumpy old man while running her own love life?

The one who never remembered our grandchildrens birthdays? The one who tossed a pregnant me out into the rain?

A childish bitterness flashed in his voice, the sort hed buried for years.

The bitterness of a boy who grew up with grandparents while his mother found herself in the city, swapping partners like gloves.

Paul, she cant even turn herself over, Anna said.

And what then?! he shouted. Its her fate, Tina! Why should we you, me, the kids foot the bill?

Because if we dont, youll eat yourself alive.

Paul fell silent.

I dont like her, Tina, he whispered. It sounds brutal, but I dont like her. I feel nothing for her except hatred.

I know. I dont like her either. After everything she said about my parents, about us theres no love left.

But Paul?

Then why bother?

Because were human, Paul. Not beasts. And justice tells us we have to look after her

He managed a bitter grin.

Justice, right? Where was justice when I was in school shoes, and she showed up once a month with a bag of sweets, playing the goodmummy for the neighbours?

Where was justice when she demanded the money wed saved for the birth?

Theres no justice there, Anna said firmly. None now. Right now were talking about us, about what well have to live with.

Paul pinched the bridge of his nose.

Fine. Lets do the maths. What do we have in the rainyday fund?

£3,000 set aside for a car, £2,000 for holidays.

Half a million pennies. Paul shook his head. The operations free on the NHS, right?

But the plates and screws could be imported, pricey. Meds a carer

He pulled up the calculator on his phone.

If we hire a carer in the hospital, thats roughly £2,000 a month. Six months is £12,000.

He stared at Anna, eyes wide.

Thats all we have. And more. Well be broke, completely.

Anna stayed quiet. The numbers were frightening. They were their hardearned cash, after all.

What if, Paul began uncertainly. What if we took her home?

Where, Paul? Anna swept her hand over their modest flat. Into the nursery? With Arthur and Polly?

A bedridden woman with pressure sores and nightly moans? You want the kids to see that? To breathe it in?

No, he blurted. No, of course not.

In our bedroom? We on the sofa in the kitchen? When would you work? Shell demand attention every second. You know shell drive us mad.

Shed manipulate, play the victim, cause scenes. Well split up within a month of this, she warned. I cant handle it.

Paul lowered his head. He knew his wife was right. His own mother could turn a single flat into a living nightmare.

So no options? he said. Either we lose the money, or what? Leave her there?

Social services, Anna suggested. We could try to place her in a staterun care home for the elderly.

Youve been in those places? Paul grimaced. Thats a hospice, a oneway ticket. Shell be out of sight in a few months.

At least its almost free Theyll look after her on the pension.

Paul measured the room again with his eyes.

I cant, he finally said. I hate her, but I cant send her to wherever. Id lose any respect for myself.

Anna exhaled.

Alright, heres the plan.

She grabbed a notebook and pen from the fridge.

We wont blow all our savings. Well hire a private carer, not through an agency theyre cheaper. Around £1,800 a month.

Still a lot, Paul grumbled.

It is, but we can cover it if we cut back. No restaurants, no cinema, no new clothes for the next six months.

The car, Anna faltered. We wont buy a new one yet.

The rainyday fund will go to meds and unexpected costs.

Paul watched her scribble numbers, a quiet admiration for her resolve. Thats what hed fallen in love with long ago.

When will they discharge her? he asked. In a month or two? Where do we take her? To the village?

The village house has no facilities. Shed be stuck. Well need to rent a cheap studio flat, with basics, and move the carer there.

That adds another £500 a month.

Yes.

Well be working just for her, maybe a year, maybe two. She might never get up.

Paul, Anna put down her pen. Listen. Were not bringing her into our home. Thats my condition, plain and simple. I want to keep our family, our sanity, our kids childhood. For that comfort we pay we buy some peace.

Were buying our way out, Paul said after a long pause. Sounds cynical.

Its honest. Well fund her care, the doctors, the food, hygiene. Visit every two weeks, bring supplies.

Paul pulled Anna into a hug. What would he do without her?

***

They followed Annas plan. The first meeting was tense: the mother blamed the son for being disabled.

Anna got a ribbing herself the motherinlaw claimed it was because of her that Paul had shunned his own mother.

They found a carer, bought everything the doctors demanded, and started hunting for a modest flat for the mother and the motherinlaw, while fielding endless nagging calls each day. They endured it because they werent animals.