“Tomorrow I’ll transfer the money to Mum for her flat. The decision’s made,” James declared, never even asking my opinion.
“What? You’ve decided to buy Mum a flat?” I stared at him, bewildered, as he sat at the kitchen table with a guilty look on his face.
James gave a short nod, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Yes, I’ve decided. She’s only a million short, and we’ve almost saved that much.” He said.
“What do you mean ‘decided’? We’ve been saving for our own flat for four years! We were already looking at neighbourhoods, weighing options!” My voice rose.
“Emily, think about it. Mum has spent her whole life in a cramped council flat. The neighbours drink, shout, and the walls never sleep. She deserves a decent place.”
I sank into the chair opposite him, my hands trembling with indignation.
“And what about us? Don’t we deserve a proper home? We’re young, we want children, and we’re stuck in this tiny one‑room flat! I’ve already told all my friends we’ll be moving soon!”
“Mum’s alone. She’ll retire soon; her pension is a pittance. We’re still young; we can save more later.”
“Save more?” I leapt up. “Do you realise how long that will take? We put aside £40 a month, denying ourselves everything!”
James finally looked up, his eyes fixed and resolute. “Tomorrow I’ll transfer the money to Mum for the flat. The decision’s made.”
The following days in our cramped flat were heavy with silence. I gave him short nods when he tried to start a conversation, while he pretended everything was fine, though I could see how nervous he was.
On Friday evening I could take it no longer and phoned my sister, Rachel.
“Rach, can I come over? Things are terrible at home.”
“Of course, come straight away. What’s happened?”
An hour later I was sitting in Rachel’s kitchen, spilling the whole story while she listened, shaking her head occasionally.
“Can you believe it? He didn’t even ask you! He just thrust a fait‑accompli in front of you!”
“And what does Mum say?”
“She’s delighted, of course. She says she never expected such care from her son, but she stays silent about the trouble it’s caused us.”
Rachel poured tea for us both and settled opposite me.
“Maybe he’s right. After all, it’s his mother…”
“Are you against me too?” a lump rose in my throat.
“No, no. I’m just trying to understand his logic. Though I agree—such a decision should have been discussed with his wife.”
At that moment Igor, Rachel’s husband, entered the kitchen. He had overheard the end of our talk and joined in.
“What’s this about?” he asked.
Rachel gave a brief recap. Igor shook his head thoughtfully.
“Emily, if I were James, I’d do the same. Parents are sacred. They raised us; now it’s our turn to look after them.”
“But we had plans! We had dreams!” I exclaimed.
“Plans can change. But you only have one set of parents.”
Despair washed over me. Even my own family seemed unable to see my side.
Back home another tense conversation awaited. James was perched on the sofa, clearly waiting for me.
“Where have you been?” he asked.
“At Rachel’s. I was telling her how wonderful a husband I have.” I snapped.
“Emily, enough! We’re not poor; we’ll save again.”
“When? In five years? Ten? What if we have children? Then there’ll be nothing left to save!”
“If we have children, we’ll sort the housing then. We’ll ask our parents for help.”
“Which parents? Yours, who will buy a flat with our money? Or mine, who gets a few pounds from a pension?”
James rose and went to the window.
“You’re selfish, Emily. You only think of yourself.”
“And you only think of Mum! You’ve forgotten you have a wife!”
“I haven’t forgotten. But a wife should understand and support her husband.”
“Support what? That our plans go down the drain?”
James turned, his eyes cold with a hardness I’d never seen before.
“Mum spent her whole life on me. After Dad left, she raised me alone, working two jobs so I could study. Now it’s my turn.”
“And what about me? We’ve been together five years, married three!”
“Mum is Mum. Wives…” He stopped, but I understood.
“What about wives? Finish your sentence!”
“Nothing. I’ll transfer the money tomorrow. End of story.”
The next morning James left for work without a goodbye. I sat at the computer, opened the banking app, and saw our joint account held just under £20,000 – the result of four years of scrimping.
I remembered how we began saving. Back then we lived in an even smaller council flat, renting a room in a shared house. Every month we calculated to the last penny how much we could set aside. We gave up cafés, cinema trips, new clothes. We dreamed of our own home.
James used to say we were a team, that together we could achieve anything. Now he made decisions alone.
At lunch Mum called.
“Emily, love, how are you? Your voice sounds sad.”
“Oh, Mum, just tired from work.”
“And James? I haven’t heard from your son‑in‑law lately.”
I didn’t tell her about the fight. Mum already worried over everything.
“James is fine. He works a lot.”
“Good. When are you buying your flat? I recall you saying soon.”
“Still saving, Mum.”
The call left me feeling worse. I had told everyone about our plans, and now I would have to explain why they fell apart.
That evening James returned in silence, sat at the computer, and opened the banking app to arrange the transfer.
“Are you serious about this?” I asked.
“Serious.”
“Let’s talk again. Could we give Mum half the sum? At least try to find a compromise.”
“No. She needs a million. She has eight hundred thousand; the rest is missing.”
“And us? Don’t we need a decent flat?”
“We do, but it’s not urgent.”
I placed my hand on his shoulder. “James, please. This is our shared dream, our future.”
He gently removed my hand. “My decision is final.”
“Then so is mine.”
“Which one?”
“I’m leaving.”
James looked up, stunned. “Where are you going?”
“Away from you. I can’t live with someone who doesn’t respect me.”
“You’re breaking up over money?”
“No, over the fact you made a decision for the two of us, as if my opinion didn’t matter.”
He turned back to the screen. “As you wish. I’ll transfer the money anyway.”
I began packing. He stayed rooted in his chair, pretending not to notice. When I closed the suitcase, he finally spoke.
“You think I’ll try to stop you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good. I need a wife who supports me, not one who makes a scene over every little thing.”
“Little things?” I stopped at the door. “Two thousand pounds and shattered plans are little things?”
“In comparison with what Mum did for me, yes, they’re little.”
“I see. Then live with Mum.”
I grabbed my suitcase and headed for the door. James shouted after me, “Fine, be that way! I don’t need a wife like that!”
The door slammed.
Rachel welcomed me without question, made space for me on the fold‑out sofa in the spare room, and said I could stay as long as I needed.
“Won’t Mark say anything?”
“What would he say? She’s my sister; I have the right to take her in.”
The next morning I woke to the sound of children’s laughter. My nephews were playing in the next room, oblivious to the drama that had unfolded.
At breakfast Rachel asked, “What will you do now?”
