“You’re a weight around our necks, not a proper wife,” my mother-in-law lashed out in front of everyone as I poured the tea, completely oblivious that I was the one who had cleared her debts.

You’re a burden, not a wife, my motherinlaw snaps in front of the whole family while Im pouring tea, not realising Im the one who paid off her debts.

Michael, love, pass me that prawn salad, Eleanor shouts to her son with a tone as if hed just returned from a victorious battle. Her voice is soft, almost melodic, but beneath it lies a command nobody dares to refuse.

Michael jumps up immediately, jerking his chair back so its legs screech against the floor. He darts around the table, cutting off any other guests as if I might interfere with his role as the devoted son. I shift slightly in my seat, pretending to stare at my glass of orange juice, while inside I watch the scene with a cold, practiced irony.

The same pattern repeats at every family gathering for the past year. The ritual is always the same: Michael hero, saviour, the rock of the family. And me just a woman standing slightly aside, a convenient accessory whose job is to pour drinks, smile at jokes that arent funny, and keep quiet when needed.

Eleanor snatches the salad bowl from Michaels hands with the dignity of someone receiving a trophy after months of hard negotiations. She places the dish in the centre of the table like a queen crowning herself.

A real man, the pillar of the family! she declares loudly, looking around at all the relatives. Not like some who only know how to flirt. Everything rests on his shoulders, he carries it all.

I pretend to adjust the napkin on my lap to hide my expression. His shoulders means my money the cash I secretly used to plug the hole in her failing business. Thirty thousand pounds an amount that still made Michaels hands shake when we transferred the final instalment.

Let them think its me, he says. Itll be easier for Mum to accept. You know her ideas about a woman who earns.

Yes, I know. And I agree. What difference does it make who gets the credit if the family is saved from shame and bill collectors? Back then, I tell myself it doesnt matter.

Emily, why are you so still? my motherinlaws voice pulls me from my thoughts. Uncle Victors plate is empty. Put some meat on it.

I silently take his plate. Uncle Victor smiles sheepishly, but nobody ever dares to argue with Eleanor.

While I serve the hot dish, she continues her monologue, apparently addressed to everyone but really aimed at me.

I look at you young people and marvel. My Michael works tirelessly, spinning like a hamster in a wheel. And all for what? So theres prosperity at home. So the wife lacks nothing.

She pauses, letting the words settle over the guests.

And whats the reward? Wheres the support? When I was his age, I worked, ran the house, and already had children. And now? They sit on mens shoulders and give nothing back.

I place the plate before Uncle Victor. My hands tremble slightly, but I force a smile. Michael catches my eye, and a flicker of apology passes through his gaze, yet he remains silent, as always.

The evening drags on the familiar route. Praise for Michael alternates with thinlyveiled rebukes aimed at me, dressed up as life wisdom. I feel like a specimen under glass, scrutinised and judged by all.

When its time for dessert, I head to the kitchen for the cake. Michael follows.

Emily, dont be upset, he whispers, closing the door. Mum is just well, shes so proud of me. That I saved her.

Im not upset, Michael. I understand everything.

But I no longer understand. The game of the modest wife beside the hero husband is choking me.

My appdevelopment startup, which everyone dismisses as a cute hobby, earns three times what his departmenthead salary does. I insist we keep my income hidden, to avoid envy and to let Michael feel comfortable.

He feels comfortable. I do not.

I return to the living room with the cake. Eleanor is busy complaining to a cousin about rising prices.

and tell me, how is a young family supposed to save for all this? No way! Unless the husband has a brain on his shoulders. And if beside him theres not a helper but a budget hole, then everythings lost.

I begin slicing the cake.

A distant relative asks, Eleanor, why arent your people going to the coast this year? Michael worked so hard.

Eleanor purses her lips, shoots me a scorching glance as if Id cancelled the trip, and then, slowly and venomously, so everyone can hear:

What coast? He needs to rest from the eternal burden. Youre a burden, not a wife, she hurls across the table. You only know how to live off someone elses money.

The knife in my hand freezes. An awkward silence settles, broken only by Uncle Victor coughing into his fist. All eyes turn to me, waiting for a reaction an outburst, tears, a sharp retort.

I lower the knife onto the plate, look up at my motherinlaw and smile. Not a tremor, not a hint of humiliation, just a cold, empty smile.

What slice would you like, Eleanor? With nuts or without?

She blinks, flustered, not expecting that. Without waiting for an answer, I cut her the biggest, most beautiful slice and place it before her, then continue serving the others as if nothing happened.

The evening ends quickly. Guests, sensing the tension, drift away one by one. In the car, Michael puts on a familiar song.

Emily, Mum went too far, it happens to everyone. You know her temper

I know, I reply flatly, watching the city lights pass. My voice sounds foreign and lifeless.

She doesnt mean it. She just worries about me. That Ill get too tired.

Yes, of course, I nod. Worries.

There is no anger or remorse in his voice, only the weary irritation of a man forced again to mediate between two women.

The next few days pass in oppressive silence. We barely speak.

I immerse myself in work, signing a new contract with foreign investors. Michael drifts around the house like a shadow, offended by my silence.

Then the phone rings. Of course its Eleanor. Michael talks with her in the kitchen for ages, then appears where Im working on my laptop.

Emily, heres the thing he begins hesitantly.

I take off my glasses and look at him.

Mums car is falling apart. She almost had an accident today the brakes failed.

I stay silent, waiting for more. It doesnt take long.

So I thought we could help her. Buy a new one. Not the most expensive, of course, but a reliable model. So we dont have to worry.

He looks at me, hopeful, the same hope he showed when he asked me to cover her debts. He expects me to agree again.

​We? I ask, closing the laptop slowly.

Yes, we. I cant manage alone, you know. But together

No, Michael, I say quietly, loud enough for him to hear every word. We cant.

He freezes.

What do you mean? Emily, thats my mum!

Shes your mum. Exactly. So youll buy her a car with your salary.

Michael looks at me as if Ive spoken a foreign language. Confusion and anger flicker in his eyes.

Are you kidding? Because of what she said to you? I thought you were above that!

I am above that, Michael. So far above that I wont let anyone trample over me any more not her, not you. The bank is closed. The Save the Family fund is dead.

He grabs his phone and rushes to the balcony, gesturing furiously. I hear fragments: completely lost it! over some nonsense! yes, come, of course! I stay put, waiting.

Eleanor storms in forty minutes later, bursting into the flat without knocking, ready for battle. Michael follows like a squire.

Whats happening here? she demands at the doorway. Emily, why are you pushing my son? Hes ill because of you!

I turn slowly to her.

Hello, Eleanor. Im not pushing anyone. I simply refused to buy you a new car.

What?! She looks at Michael, then back at me. You refuse to help the family? After all my son does for you?

Thats the moment. The stage is set, the main actors assembled.

And what exactly does your son do for me? I ask calmly, meeting her eyes. He didnt even cover your business debts of thirty thousand pounds last year.

Eleanors mouth drops open. Michael turns pale as a sheet.

What are you talking about? What debts? Michael paid everything! He told me himself! He saved me!

Michael? I shift my gaze to my husband, pressed against the wall. Michael, tell Mum where a departmenthead earning a hundredthousand pounds suddenly got thirty thousand? Did you rob a bank? Find a treasure?

He stays silent, unable to meet my eyes.

Ill tell you where, I continue, my voice gaining strength. That money is mine. Every penny.

Earned by my cute hobby, as you like to call it. My IT company, which you dismiss as a trifle.

I paid for your mistakes to rescue your family from disgrace, and in return I get labelled a burden.

Eleanor slowly sinks onto the ottoman in the hallway. The heroic mother mask slips, revealing confusion and humiliation.

She looks from me to her sonhero, who turns out to be a liar.

I went along with the lie for Michaels sake, to protect his pride. So he could remain your hero. I thought it was right. I was wrong.

I grab my laptop bag from the chair.

So, Eleanor. Your son will buy you a car, if he can. Or you will. Learn to solve your problems without my wallet.

I head for the door, Michael steps toward me.

Emily wait

No, I stop at the threshold. Ive had enough. I was convenient for too long. Its time Im happy for myself.

And I leave, closing the door behind me. I dont know where Im going, but for the first time in ages I feel Im moving in the right direction.

Six months later I stand in the middle of my new flat bright, spacious, with floortoceiling windows overlooking the citys financial district. Sunlight dances on the parquet, the air smells of fresh paint and coffee. Every detail is mine: the minimalist sofa, the abstract painting I bought at my first auction.

After that final scene, I rented a hotel room, then a week later I signed the lease on this apartment. The divorce proceeds surprisingly smoothly.

Michael doesnt argue. Its as if theyve taken the spine out of him. Hes broken, not by my leaving but by the exposure. His carefully built hero image crumbles to dust.

The phone on the kitchen island buzzes. A message from Michael. He used to call daily, first with angry tirades, then pitiful pleas, now something in between.

Emily, I understand everything. I was wrong. But maybe we can at least talk? Mum is very ill, she cries constantly. Her blood pressure is high. She blames herself and me. We both feel terrible without you.

I set the phone aside, not replying. I know Eleanor isnt truly sick. Uncle Victor, the only relative who ever called after that night, occasionally updates me on the situation.

Mum doesnt cry shes angry. Angry at her son for failing her hopes, angry at me for exposing the familys mess, angry at a world that seems unfair to her.

They never bought her a car. Now they live together in her flat, and, according to Victor, the atmosphere there is gloomy constant reproaches, money fights, mutual accusations. The hero and his rescued mother turn out to be two miserable people unable to care for themselves, let alone each other.

He never grasped the point. He writes that they feel bad without me, but not because they miss me as a person. They miss my money, my support, that invisible force that kept their world afloat while they sang praises to themselves.

Meanwhile my business soars. The contract with the foreign investors brings not only cash but also recognition in niche circles. I hire five more developers, we rent a sleek loft for the office. I work a lot, but the work now brings joy, not dull irritation.

I no longer hide my successes, no longer pretend its a cute hobby. I am the owner of a thriving company, and that is my greatest achievement.

Another call comes, this time from my deputy.

Emily, the investors have confirmed a meeting in Shanghai in two weeks. They want to celebrate the launch in person. Should I book the tickets?

I look out at the city spread beneath me, at the clear, boundless sky.

Yes, Kirill, I reply, smiling. Book them. And reserve a hotel with a sea view. Its time I finally rest.