Emily, were starving! Quit lazing about! a disgruntled voice called from somewhere above her ear, the tone unmistakably her husbands.
Her head cracked like a kettle under a hot flame, her throat a raw canal, her nose a sealed tunnel. When she tried to rise, her limbs felt as if they were made of cottonwool. No wonder the flu had settled in.
All week the sun had baked the city of Manchester, and just the night before a sudden sleetrain fell, as if spring were trying on winters coat. A taxi would not answer the call hardly surprising in that weather. She was forced to catch the local RBus from the office. After waiting half an hour for a bus that arrived jampacked, she squeezed herself into the cramped carriage with the effort of threading a needle. The stop was still a good walk away, and she had begged James to swing by, but he replied:
Emily, Charlie and Ive just dropped in at my mums. Well be late, he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
So, as always, Emily finally trudged home in the early hours, dripping and shivering. She glanced at the clock: 8a.m. on a Saturday.
James, could you fetch a thermometer, please? she croaked.
Whats that? Youre ill? James sounded halfasleep. And breakfast?
Will you make something yourself? she asked, halfhopeful.
What do you mean yourself? he muttered, bewildered. What about Charlie?
Hes ten now! And youre a grown man. Could you fry an egg? Let the lad give you a hand. I taught him to cook; hes practically a chef.
You taught a boy to cook? James blurted. Whats the scandal? He spends all day glued to his phone, does nothing else.
Emily shrugged.
Are you out of your mind? Hes a man! Cooking isnt a mans duty, its a womans business! James huffed, his voice rising like an angry kettle. Fine, well go to my parents. If you cant handle us, well be there tomorrow night.
He and his father, in a flash of hurried resolve, set off for the family home.
Emily, with great effort, rose, retrieved the thermometer, turned on the kettle and stared into the steam, pondering the strange logic of the dream.
*Why did it happen like this? When had the moment slipped away when her husband could have calmly made a simple meal for both of them, when during sickness they tended each other? When did the domestic chores suddenly become her sole responsibility?*
The thermometer sang: 39.2°C. She swallowed the medicine, curled back into the blankets and drifted back into sleep.
A buzzing phone ripped her from the dreamstate. Her mothers voice poured in, sounding as if it were echoing through a hallway of old photographs.
Emily, why arent you answering? I always expect your morning call. I thought Id lost you.
Mum, Im a bit under the weather. Took the pills and fell asleep again, Emily rasped.
A bit, eh? And where is Charlie? Back at his mothers again?
We went away with Charlie. We didnt want to catch anything.
Do you really believe that? Dont catch anything Tell me youre not planning to skip the dishes, lest you have to wash them yourself!
Emily tried to protest, but the words were swallowed by the thick air.
Dont whine! I have the right to be angry. I gave you away in marriage, not into slavery! Did you check your temperature?
Yes, it was high this morning. Its a little better now, but I have no strength.
Stay in bed! Father will fetch you. Ill lift you up! Its not right to be ill alone. Wait for me.
The line clicked off.
Later, the front door opened and her father, Robert, stepped in, his hand clutching his chest as if a phantom wind had seized it.
Oh! he gasped, eyes wide.
Whats wrong, Dad? Are you all right? Emilys voice trembled.
Ah, its you! he said, taking her bag with a calm that belied the panic. I thought I had found my own death. Im as pale as a ghost!
Dad, why scare me like that? she laughed weakly. Shall we go?
Lets go. Hold onto me, dear. The wind will try to blow you away otherwise. He guided her to the car, his words swirling like mist: You look thin, exhausted, as if youve been handed over to servitude. Forgive me, but you look not your best.
Emily didnt argue; she was exhausted.
The parents house was warm, fragrant with tea and fresh toast. Margaret, her motherinlaw, tended to her with a seriousness that made the clocks hands slow. By evening Emily felt a faint lift in her spirits.
She called James again, only to hear his lazy drawl:
What do you want, love? I cant bring you any medicine. Ive had a couple of pints with Dad. Its Saturday, were watching the footie. Oh, Mum wanted to chat with you, he said, passing the phone to his mother.
Emily! Youre a woman! You mustnt let your men starve! What matters in a family? Men should be fed, warm, and out of the way! scolded Patricia, the neighbour whod happened to be passing by, snatching the handset.
Dear, what a man should be? Weak? Ill? Or should he just sit warm, full, and never lift a finger? Margaret interjected, her voice a blend of accusation and bewilderment.
Why weak? All men are like that, you know, the motherinlaw snapped, not expecting such a retort. Victor, how are you?
How? a mess! Im lifting my daughter up. A real man cant even buy medicinehad a beer instead Here we go, my wifes ill and Im glad.
The words tangled, the dream growing more tangled still.
A message pinged from James later:
*Emily, can you send some money? Im short until payday. I spent it on Charlie. I even had to pay for his school fees and buy him clothes!*
Emilys fingers hovered, then typed:
*I paid the rent and groceries all month. Is that okay?*
James replied furiously:
*Right, the flat is yours! Send it now, Im heading to the shop!*
She typed:
*No money. Spent it on medicine.*
He snarled:
*What? Your illness is costing us! Ask your parents.*
She shot back:
*Ask your mum.*
He growled:
*She wont understand where I spent my wages.*
She answered:
*I dont get it either.*
Jamess final volley:
*Im a grown man. I have my own wants and expenses. I dont have to report to you or Mum! Im at the shop. Send it, now!*
She typed succinctly:
*I wont send.*
The reply was a flood of insultsgreedy, ungrateful, a bad mother, a terrible wifeuntil finally Emily, drained, turned to her own mother and said:
Dont, Mum. I dont need it.
All evening and night, James and Patricia hurled angry texts at her, each trying to teach her a lesson. Emily simply muted the notifications.
On Sunday morning, as the family gathered for breakfasta fluffy omelette crowned with chivesJames called again:
Emily, well stay at my mums for a while. She loves us, unlike you. She once said she didnt know what kind of mother shed be. I ignored her. Youre nothingjust a cuckoo!
His voice cracked, then fell silent.
Well then! What do you say, dear? Ian, the familys patriarch, asked, his eyes flickering over the plate.
All I see is divorce, Emily whispered, staring at the golden yolk. I dont want this.
The day wore on, and the house filled with the clatter of dishes and halfspoken accusations.
Later, her father returned with a new set of keys.
Here. Toss these if you want, he said, handing her a jangling bunch.
What? Emily blinked, unable to follow.
Ive changed the locks on your flat, gathered your things and Charlies, and taken them to the matchmaker. Youll have them later. Stay here for a while, okay? And dont answer the phone. Its safer.
In the kitchen, her mother hummed a contented tune, finally fulfilling a dream shed held for years: a home where the daughter would have to find her own way.
Emily filed for divorce. The accusations piled up: fool, familybreaker, cuckoo, ungrateful mother, and more, each one lighter than the next. Yet, for the first time in years, she felt a strange, warm lightness.
The court, presided over by a judge who seemed to be James in disguise, dissolved the marriage swiftlyno children, no shared property. A year later, James decided it was cheaper to claim his son than to pay child support; his exwife didnt object. He had forgotten to ask Emily for advice, to warn her, but it mattered little to him. Hed forgotten that the apartment Charlie now lived in belonged to Emily, that bills still needed paying, that a woman could be more than a footnote.
The judgment fell into place, oddly orchestrated by the very man whod tried to keep everything tangled.
Now, living with her father and his own mother, who kept a tight grip on the household budget, Emily found herself surrounded by three men in a house built for one. It was chaotic, but she was content.
She bought herself a cara bright red hatchbackto never be stuck in the rain again. At twentyseven, after a bitter divorce, she finally understood what mattered: loving herself.
The end.