“‘The beach holiday’s cancelled—Mom’s coming to stay!’ he declared two days before the flight, not realising I’d begun making my own choices.”

— The beach trip’s off, — Leon said, never looking up from his phone. — My mum’s coming.

I was standing in the middle of the bedroom, suitcase open. In my hands was a brand‑new swimsuit, still on the tag. First one in seven years.

— How can it be off? — I carefully laid the swimsuit on the bed. — The tickets are bought. Non‑refundable. Two thousand eight hundred pounds, Leon.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose and slumped onto the edge of the sofa. That’s his habit whenever a conversation goes somewhere he doesn’t want it to.

— What am I supposed to do? She already booked a train. It’s two days out. I can’t just tell her to turn around.

We’d been married seven years, and in those seven years I’d never taken a holiday. Not a seaside break, not a spa weekend, not even a night out in the next town. The first year we managed a three‑day honeymoon in Brighton, because my mother‑in‑law called saying her blood pressure was off. We went back. Her pressure was 130 over 80 – perfectly normal for her age. I knew that because I’m a pharmacist and see those numbers every day on prescriptions.

Since then we hadn’t gone anywhere. Every time we tried to plan a break, Mavis showed up. Fourth time in seven years, as if on schedule.

— Leon, — I sat down beside him, trying to keep my voice steady. — We’d been saving for this holiday for four months. I’ve taken extra shifts, twelve‑hour days. You saw me coming in late, didn’t you?

— I see it, — he said, still staring at his screen. — But mum’s more important.

I pushed my glasses back. My fingers slipped; my hands were dry and cracked from the antiseptic wipes. Eight years behind the pharmacy counter had turned my skin into sandpaper.

— More important than what? — I asked.

— More important than the sea, Blythe, — he finally looked up. — Mum’s seventy‑four. You don’t understand?

I understood. I understood that Mavis lived in a modest three‑bed flat in York with a neighbour who stopped by every day. She went to the market herself, carried the shopping bags, made twenty jars of jam for winter. And every “visit” from her started with the same call to Leon: “Love, I’ve missed you, I’ll be there for a week.”

That “week” stretched to two, then three. Once she stayed for a whole month, only leaving because the neighbour called to say a pipe had burst in her flat.

— I’m not cancelling, — I said. — Go meet mum. I’ll fly.

Leon lifted his head as if I’d just suggested something scandalous.

— Where are you flying? Alone? Without me?

— With Sonya.

— No, — he got up. — No, Blythe. We’re a family. It’s either together or not at all.

I gave in, just as I had three times before. I shoved the swimsuit back into the wardrobe, closed the suitcase and tucked it onto the loft shelf.

Two thousand eight hundred pounds went up in smoke. Non‑refundable.

Two days later Mavis stood in the hallway with a heavy checkered bag and a sack of home‑grown cucumbers.

— Well, show us what you’ve brought, — she said, eyeing the hallway. — The wallpaper’s overdue for a change. Leon, you hardly look after the flat with your wife, do you?

***

Mavis stayed with us for three weeks.

The first two days she rearranged everything in the kitchen. Pots went to a different cupboard, spices to a new shelf, the cutting board under the sink “because it’s more hygienic”. I was working twelve‑hour shifts and coming home to a kitchen where I could never find anything.

— Mavis, — I said on the third day, opening a cupboard in search of a frying pan. — I’m used to things being where they belong. It’s easier for me when everything has its place.

She looked over my glasses, a weighty glance from top to bottom, even though I was a head taller.

— You, Blythe, are used to chaos. This isn’t order, it’s a mess. Who puts a pan next to the rice?

— It’s convenient for me, — I replied.

— It’s not for me. And neither for Leon. Right, Leon?

Leon sat at the table, phone in hand, silent. His shoulders were hunched, as they always were when his mum spoke to him.

— Mum, — he said. — Alright then.

“Alright then” was all I heard. Not “Blythe’s right” and not “Mum, that’s her kitchen”. Just “Alright then”.

On the fifth day Mavis tackled the curtains. I’d bought them the previous year – linen, mustard‑coloured, chosen to match the sofa upholstery and the cushions. Eight pounds.

I got home from work to find the curtains folded on the armchair, white netting on the windows that Mavis had brought from her own house.

— What’s this? — I asked.

— Proper curtains, not just rags, — she said, tapping the table with a finger. — Mustard is a hospital colour, not a home colour.

I was silent for three seconds, then removed the netting, folded it and set it on a stool. I took out my own curtains and started hanging them.

My hands didn’t tremble. This time, they were steady.

— What are you doing? — Mavis’s voice dropped an octave.

— Hanging my curtains, — I said without turning around. — I like my curtains. This is my home. I get to pick the colour.

Silence hung for about five seconds. Then Mavis got up from the table and left the room. I heard her dial a number in the hallway. The voice was muffled, but I could make out: “Leon, your wife is being rude to me. I’m not used to being spoken to like that”.

Leon came home earlier than usual. The front door slammed so hard Sonya in her bedroom jumped.

— What did you do? — he asked as he stepped in.

— I hung my curtains.

— Mum’s upset! She brought us those cucumbers, she tried, and you didn’t even say thank you!

I looked at him, at his broad shoulders that now, with Mavis out of the room, were bent forward. When she was present he hunched; when she wasn’t, he straightened.

— Leon, — I said. — I thanked her for the cucumbers, the jam, the pies. But I’ll choose the curtains in my house.

— It’s OUR house!

— Then why does your mum make the decisions?

He didn’t answer. He rubbed his nose, turned and walked back to his mother.

That evening Sonya slipped into the kitchen, quiet, a textbook in her hands as if she’d come for a glass of water.

— Mum, — she said. — He calls her every time. Before each holiday. I’ve heard it.

— What did you hear?

— He says, “Mum, we’re leaving on the 12th”. And she shows up. Every single time.

I put the kettle on and listened to the water boil. It wasn’t a coincidence. It was a pattern. Four times in a row, a system.

Sonya shifted from foot to foot.

— Mum, are you okay?

— I’m fine, — I said. — Go do your homework.

I wasn’t fine. I grabbed my phone, opened a note and started adding up the figures. First holiday – honeymoon, three‑person package, £1,200. Second – Turkey, two years ago, £1,900. Third – Cambridge, last spring, tickets and hotel £500. Fourth – this £2,800. Six‑hundred‑and‑forty thousand rubles turned into about £6,000 over seven years. All gone.

Leon had taken Mavis to Bath twice in that time, on health‑resort packages, each time using the joint money.

I closed the note, put the phone away and poured myself a cup of tea. My hands were calm. I hadn’t made a decision yet, but something had shifted inside.

A month after Mavis left, I invited my friend Claire over for dinner. Claire works with me at the pharmacy; we’d known each other nine years.

Leon went off to a mate’s house to watch football. Sonya was in her room. Claire, Claire, and I cracked open a bottle of wine, sliced some cheese and settled at the kitchen table – the first proper evening in ages.

— How are you? — Claire asked. — Got any plans for the summer?

— Nowhere, — I said, smiling at the familiar question.

— Again?

— Again.

Claire shook her head. She knew. We all knew.

Then the doorbell rang. I opened it – there stood Mavis, suitcase and a bag of cucumbers.

— Leon said you’re home alone, — she said. — Thought I’d drop by. It’s been a while.

A month had passed. That’s “a while”.

She came in, saw Claire, sat at the table. I poured her tea, because Mavis didn’t drink wine and certainly didn’t approve of it.

We talked for about ten minutes, then Claire asked:

— Mavis, do you travel much?

And the story began.

— Oh, you know, — Mavis sat up straight. — Leon took me to Bath twice. Two spa weeks, baths, massages, the hills. Lovely!

She turned to me.

— And you, Blythe, where have you been lately? I haven’t seen a single photo of you anywhere.

I adjusted my glasses.

— Nowhere, — I said. — Absolutely nowhere.

— See? — Mavis said to Claire, as if explaining something obvious. — Young, healthy, never goes anywhere. Leon suggests it, she refuses. It’s her fault. At my age I’ve already toured the whole of Cornwall.

Claire looked at me, her lips pressed together.

— Mavis, — Claire said. — Blythe isn’t staying away because she doesn’t want to.

— Why not? — Claire asked, eyes searching mine for permission.

I answered myself.

— Because every time we buy tickets, you turn up, — I said, voice even. — Four times in seven years. Honeymoon – you called, we turned back. Spain – you arrived the day before departure. Cambridge – same. This year – the sea. Two thousand eight hundred pounds, non‑refundable. Total about six thousand pounds. I’ve counted.

Mavis stopped tapping the table. Her hand froze midway to her cup.

— What are you on about? — she asked.

— I’m talking numbers, — I replied. — No accusations. Just numbers. I could give dates if you need.

Silence.

Claire got up, said she had to go. I walked her to the door. When I got back to the kitchen, Mavis was already dialing Leon.

Twenty minutes later he burst into the flat, shoes still on.

— Why are you making mum look bad in front of strangers? — he said, standing in the hall.

— I didn’t. I just mentioned the sums, — I said.

— Which sums? What are you talking about?

— The six‑hundred‑and‑forty thousand pounds we’ve lost on cancelled trips over the years of our marriage.

Leon stared at his mother. Mavis stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.

— Love, — she said. — Either it’s me or her.

— Mum, — Leon rubbed his nose.

— She needs to apologise, — Mavis cut in.

Leon turned to me.

— Blythe, apologise to your mother.

I took off my glasses, wiped them on the inside of my sweater. Without them everything was a little blurry – Leon, his mother, the hallway, the shoes.

— No, — I said. — I won’t.

— Then I’m going to stay with mum, — he said. — Until you come to your senses.

— Fine, — I replied.

He waited for another answer. I could see his jaw twitch. I stayed quiet, and he stayed quiet. Then he grabbed his coat and left. Mavis followed him out, leaving the cucumber bag in the hallway.

I sat on a stool in the empty kitchen. My legs trembled after a twelve‑hour shift, and then this. Inside, though, I felt as clear as a sky after a storm.

He came back three days later. No apology, no talk, just hung his coat and sat down to dinner. Mavis went back to her flat in York.

A week later Leon started speaking to me in short bursts: “Dinner ready?”, “Where’s the shirt?”, “Pick up Sonya”. I realised he was punishing me with silence for not apologising.

And a week after that I started putting money aside in a separate account he didn’t know about.

A year flew by. Sonya turned sixteen, and I got her a passport. Leon signed the consent without even asking why. He didn’t care so long as Mavis wasn’t on the line.

In May I bought tickets. Two of us – me and Sonya – to Cornwall, three‑star hotel, nine nights. I paid from my own account – the one Leon never saw. I’d been setting aside £47 a month from my salary. The tickets were refundable this time; I’d learned my lesson.

I told Leon:

— Let’s all go together in June. I found a good deal.

He looked at me as if I’d spoken another language, then nodded.

— Alright. Let’s give it a try.

Two weeks passed while I packed. I bought Sonya new sandals and a straw hat, and for myself a sunscreen that the pharmacy sold at a staff discount.

Four days before the flight Leon arrived home later than usual. He sat at the table, phone face‑down. I knew that move – phone face‑down meant he was on the line with his mum, or she was calling him.

— Blythe, — he began.

My fingers clenched, nails digging into my palms, not from anger but from anticipation. I knew exactly what he’d say.

— Mum’s coming. We need to meet her.

— When? — I asked, already knowing the answer.

— The day after tomorrow.

The day after tomorrow. Two days before the flight.

— Leon, — I said. — Did you call her?

— What?

— Did you call her and tell her we’re flying?

He looked away, rubbed his nose, and I realised – yes. He’d called, just like the four times before, gave the dates, the route, and Mavis had immediately booked a train ticket as if on cue.

— She misses us, — Leon said. — She’ll be seventy‑five this year.

— Seventy‑four, — I corrected. — She’ll be seventy‑five in November.

He waved a hand.

— What’s the point? Mum’s alone. We’re the only ones she has. The sea will still be there.

And then it hit me. All seven years, every “the sea will still be there” line, every swimsuit with a tag, every suitcase I’d opened and closed again. Six thousand pounds gone, four cancelled trips, twelve‑hour shifts that cracked the skin on my hands.

— Fine, — I said.

Leon exhaled, relaxed, as if I’d just given in.

— Good girl, — he said. — I’ll call Mum, tell her to bring fresh bedding, we’re low on spares.

I nodded, left the kitchen and stepped into Sonya’s room.

— Pack up, — I told her. — We’re leaving the day after tomorrow.

Sonya looked up from her phone.

— Mum, he said—

— I know what he said. Pack your bag. Swimsuit, books, charger. I’ve got the passports.

She stared at me for three seconds, then smiled – the first smile in a month – and grabbed her backpack.

I went back to the kitchen. Leon was still at the table, phone in hand, already discussing with Mavis what sheets to bring.

— Leon, — I said. — I’m not cancelling the tickets.

He lifted his head.

— What do you mean?

— I mean exactly what it sounds likeI’m going to the sea with Sonya, and you can stay behind with your mum.