Raissa Gregory, where did you get the idea that I should support your son? He’s my husband, he’s the man, he should be supporting me instead, not the other way around!

Mrs. Rosemary Whitaker, why on earth do you think Im obliged to support your son? Martha snapped, her voice trembling like a loose curtain in a draft. Hes my husband. Men are meant to look after their wives, not the other way round.

Milly, open up, its me! Ive brought fresh pastry rolls, cabbagefilled just the way Paul loves them! the voice at the door sang bright and insistent, refusing to let the silence pretend the flat was empty. Martha sluggishly dabbed her hands on a kitchen towel, cast a heavy, weary glance at her husband. Paul sat at the table, staring into a cooling mug of tea, his face the portrait of a tortured genius drowning in an existential fog. He didnt even flinch at the knock, as if the world beyond the door were a clumsy, unfinished sketch.

Martha turned the lock and forced a polite smile onto her face. On the doorstep stood Mrs.Whitaker a solidbuilt woman in a sturdy coat, eyes sharp as a cutters, clutching a bag that exhaled the warm, homebaked scent of fried dough. She didnt enter; she drifted into the hallway, bringing with her an aura of unassailable righteousness.

Good morning, Milly. You look paler than a wan moon. Feel unwell? she asked, shedding her coat and scanning the flat with a scrutinising gaze. Wheres Paul? In the kitchen? I thought so.

Without waiting for an invitation, Mrs.Whitaker glided into the kitchen. Her presence instantly shattered the immaculate order Martha prized. The sleek steel surfaces and minimalist décor now seemed an illfitting stage for a motherinlaws theatrical entrance. Paul finally tore his eyes from the cup, nodded weakly, and forced a smile that barely reached his eyes.

Mum, hello. Why so early? he whispered.

Theres never a too early for a mother, Mrs.Whitaker declared, setting the bag of pastries on the table like a banner. Youve grown gaunt, my boy, and youve been slouching. Here, have something to warm you up. Eat while theyre still hot.

Martha placed a kettle on the stove in silence. She moved with a fluid, almost ghostly grace, yet each motion trembled with a tight internal coil. She felt like an actress in a stale play where every line was rehearsed. The prelude would begin: weather chatter, distant relatives health, market prices. Then, when the soil was fertilised with this domestic husk, Mrs.Whitaker would move to the main act.

Your place is always spotless, Milly. Sterile, even, the motherinlaw noted, gliding a finger across the countertop, pleased to find no dust. But it lacks a cosy touch. A man needs warmth, especially in a rough patch.

Martha set a cup before her.

Tea? Black or green?

Black, as usual. Paul, at least bite into a pastry. Its still steaming. You sit there looking famished, its painful to watch, Mrs.Whitaker cooed, nudging the plate toward him.

Paul sighed dramatically, lifted the pastry, and turned it over in his hand as if it were a philosophical relic, not merely cabbagefilled dough.

Not now, Mum. Im thinking, he said, his words a coded signal. The moment the phrase left his lips, Martha sensed the motherinlaws attention sharpen like a blade. Mrs.Whitaker turned to Martha, her face adopting a mournful yet understanding expression, rehearsed over countless years.

You see, Milly, hes a man lost in himself, searching. Creative souls cant just hop from call to call. He needs time to rethink, to find a new path. In moments like these, a womans wisdom is to offer a shoulder when a man is burdened. To understand, to accept, she murmured, her voice wrapping the room in a warm, suffocating blanket.

Paul listened with the look of a martyr, silently agreeing with each word. Martha poured boiling water into cups, the gentle steam rising like the only honest breath in the kitchen. She waited for Mrs.Whitaker to pause, then met her eyes directly. The pause stretched, and the motherinlaws tone hardened.

Milly, Paul is struggling, hes searching. You must support him, put yourself in his shoes, she whispered, the phrase striking like a guns hammer.

Martha placed the kettle on its base with deliberate care. The plastic click echoed like a shot in the quiet. She turned slowly, the hospitality in her smile gone. Her gaze, now cold and direct, pinned Mrs.Whitaker. Paul instinctively tucked his head into his shoulders, feeling the atmosphere shift.

Mrs.Whitford, lets drop the pet names, Martha said evenly, every emotion stripped away, making her sound even more threatening. Your son is a fortyyearold man, not a stray pup you need to shelter and warm. Ive explained everything to him, without your riddles or sighs. Either he takes any job tomorrowbe it porter, courier, anythingor he packs his things and goes find himself with you.

The mask of sorrow fell from Rosemarys face, revealing a hard, displeased stare. She sat up straighter, her figure turning monumentally rigid.

And how do you propose?

Exactly so, Martha cut in, voice calm. She stepped to the table, fingertips resting lightly on its edge. You raised him this waynow youre in his shoes. I married a partner, not a venture demanding constant, unrecoverable investment. I have no ballast on my neck for extra weight.

The word ballast hung in the air. Paul flinched, as if struck, and finally spoke.

Milly, what are you saying in front of Mum?

Neither woman looked at him. Their duel continued, his weak protest just background noise.

I always knew you had no heart, Rosemary hissed, eyes narrowing. Only a calculator. Money, money, money and wheres the soul? Do you even grasp creative burnout? Its not laziness! Its a person whos given everything to work and now needs to replenish! And you with your interviews! You want a genius delivering pizza?

Marthas silent laugh was more terrifying than a scream.

Genius? Dont laugh. Your sons not a delicate soul; hes a thick layer of infantile dependence youve nurtured for forty years. Youve chased him with pastries, dusted away his flaws, told him hes special and misunderstood. He grew up convinced of his uniqueness, yet can prove it only with sighs over cold tea. His burnout struck the day he was asked to take responsibility.

Each word landed like a calculated blow. Martha wasnt accusing; she was stating facts, and the cold statement stripped him of dignity more than any tantrum could. She passed judgement not just on Paul but on the entire upbringing Rosemary had crafted.

My son is a gifted man! Rosemary hammered the table, making the cups jump. And youre a cold, mercenary hag who only cares about money! Youd have him bring cash home while his spirit rots on the sofa!

Exactly, Martha replied calmly. I couldnt care less about what festers in the soul of a man whos been lazing on the couch for two weeks while his wife works to pay the mortgage on the flat he occupies. Spare me the talk of womens wisdom. Youve already applied yourslook at the result, sitting at my table, unable to defend himself. Ive had enough. Finish your tea and take your seeker with you. He needs to pack a suitcase.

The word suitcase fell on the kitchen table like acid, eating away the thin veneer of family decorum. Paul, who had been a pale shadow leaning on his mother, straightened abruptly. He rose slowly, his movement theatrical, rehearsed. He pushed the untouched pastry aside, as if renouncing the last tether to primitive needs, and fixed his gaze on Marthanot as a husband on a wife, but as a prophet confronting a misguided flock.

You never understood, he began, voice low but resonant, you tried to fit me into your paradigm: work, salary, holiday. The primitive cycle of existence. You see only the surface, Milly, the wrapper. I speak of essence, of soul!

Rosemary seized the moment, her pride flaring.

Do you hear him? Do you understand a single word? Hes cramped in your little world, cramped!

Paul raised a hand, halting her. This was his benediction.

I didnt quit as you phrase it, he said, stepping forward, assuming the tone of a lecturer. I left a system that grinds a person into a cog. Im not looking for a job. Im searching for purpose. That takes time, immersion, concentration. Its inner work, spiritual labour, far harder than shuffling paperwork from nine to six.

He spoke, intoxicated by his own cadence, painting himself as a misunderstood titan forced to explain universal laws to a barbarian just learning to make fire.

And what have you achieved in these two weeks of spiritual toil, Paul? Martha asked, her icy calm more infuriating than any shout. Discovered a new law of thermodynamics while on the sofa? Or reached zen by bingewatching dramas?

There! Thats it! he gestured toward the ceiling. You try to measure spiritual capital in material units! Youll never grasp burnout when you drain not the body but the soul! I gave my best years to that corporation, my energy, and received emptiness. Instead of helping me refill, you demand I return to that slavery! For what? A new phone? A seaside holiday where people photograph their meals?

Exactly! For that! Rosemary roared, her maternal fury spilling over. She doesnt see youre a highflyer! She needs a workhorse, not an eagle, to pull her carriage!

Martha listened to the duet of selfjustification and infantile rage, feeling something dark and cold simmer within her. She watched the fortyyearold man with preacherlike eyes, his mother reverent, the scene crystallising into a clash of universes built on lies, ego, and a pathological refusal to take responsibility. She would no longer play their game. She stood tall, her composure snapping like an overtightened string.

Mrs.Whitford, why do you think I should support your son? Hes my husband; a man ought to support his wife, not the other way round! So keep your protective pleas for your boy out of here! the words, hurled at her motherinlaw with raw, unshielded fury, detonated the kitchen. For a heartbeat absolute silence held, dust particles freezing in a stray sunbeam. Pauls mouth hung open, his prophetic pose collapsing into that of a bewildered teenager. Rosemarys face flushed, a gasp tearing from her lungs. She tried to shout, but Martha gave her no opening.

No more arguing, no more proving. Something irreversible had happened. It was as if the fuse of patience, politeness, and hope had burned out. Without a word, Martha turned and left the kitchen, her steps measured, unhurried. Paul and Rosemary exchanged a glance, bewilderment and vague alarm flickering in their eyes.

A minute later Martha returned, dragging a large darkblue suitcase on wheelsthe very one theyd once used for their wedding honeymoon. She placed it in the centre of the kitchen, between the table and the stunned pair, clicked the locks, and flung the lid open. The empty cavity yawned like a statement.

Martha what are you doing? Paul stammered, finally finding his voice. He heard nothing. She walked to the tall wardrobe, lifted his expensive cashmere coatgifted on his last birthdayand dropped it into the suitcase.

This is for finding yourself in cold realities, she said, voice flat and metallic, not even looking at the coat. It helps you focus on lofty matters when youre not freezing.

She opened a drawer, pulled out his perfectly ironed shirts, and tossed them, rumpled, into the suitcase.

And these are for interviews. For the role of a genius, messiah, spiritual guru. Dress code isnt usually required, but it adds gravitas.

Paul watched the ritual with horror. It wasnt mere packing; it was a public excommunication, a methodical erasure of his legend. She stripped each item of its past, leaving only utilitarian purpose.

Stop! Martha, cease this at once! he lunged, trying to grab her hand, but she dodged as if he were something filthy.

She moved to the shelf where his booksselfhelp tomes, philosophy, destiny guidesstood. She gathered them all and dumped them atop the shirts.

And these are spiritual food! Youll need a lot on the road, far more than ordinary sustenance, because ordinary, as weve learned, must be provided by someone else.

Rosemary, recovering from the shock, lunged.

Youve gone mad! Those are his things!

They were his. Now theyre yours, Martha replied, not turning. She placed his laptop in a special compartment. Tool for searching purpose. Or for bingewatching. Depends on the level of enlightenment.

Finally, his shoes hit the suitcase with a dull thunk, like stones. She slammed the lid shut, locked it, then dragged the suitcase to Rosemarys feet. It stopped inches from her boot.

Martha stood, eyes sweeping over both of them, her gaze empty of pain or regret, only a cold, scorched void. She stared straight at the motherinlaw.

You claimed your son was gifted. Take your gift away. Ive had my fill. Process the return to the manufacturer.

She turned without looking back, exiting the kitchen. They were left alone: the bewildered genius, his reddened, humiliated mother, and the suitcase standing between them like a tombstone on the ruins of their family life. The flat fell into a deafening, absolute silence that would never again be broken by their shared routine.