Dear Diary,
“the sea is off,” Edward said, eyes glued to his phone. “Mum’s coming over.”
I was standing in the middle of the bedroom, an open suitcase at my feet. In my hand was a brand‑new swimsuit, still bearing its tag – the first one I’d bought in seven years.
“How can you cancel?” I slipped the swimsuit onto the bed. “The tickets are already bought, non‑refundable. Two‑eight‑hundred pounds, Edward.”
He rubbed his nose and slumped onto the edge of the sofa – his usual posture whenever a conversation drifted away from the topic he preferred.
“What am I to do? She already has a train ticket for the day after tomorrow. I can’t just tell her to turn back.”
We’d been married for seven years, and in all that time I’d never taken a proper holiday. No seaside break, no spa weekend, not even a quick city escape. The first year we only managed a three‑day honeymoon in Brighton before my mother‑in‑law, Ethel, called to say her blood pressure was high. We turned back. Her reading was 130 over 80 – perfectly normal for her age. I knew that because I’m a pharmacist and see those numbers daily.
From then on, no trips. Every time we tried to plan a break, Ethel would pop up, fourth time in seven years, right on schedule.
“Edward,” I said, sitting beside him, trying to keep my voice steady, “we’ve saved for this holiday for four months. I’ve taken extra twelve‑hour shifts. You’ve seen me coming home exhausted every night.”
He glanced up from his phone. “I see,” he replied, still not looking at me. “But Mum is more important.”
I adjusted my glasses. My fingers slipped; my hands were dry and cracked from constant use of antiseptics. Eight years in a pharmacy had turned my skin into sandpaper.
“What’s more important?” I asked.
“More important than the sea, Blythe,” he finally said, looking at me. “Mum’s only seventy‑four. Don’t you get that?”
I understood. Ethel lived in a three‑room flat in York, sharing it with a neighbour who visited daily. She did her own shopping, carried her own bags, and made twenty jars of preserves each winter. Every “visit” began with the same call to Edward: “Son, I’m missing you, I’ll be staying a week.”
That “week” always stretched to two, then three. Once she stayed a whole month because the neighbour’s pipe burst.
“I won’t cancel,” I said. “You go meet Mum. I’ll fly away.”
Edward lifted his head as if I’d suggested something scandalous.
“Where will you fly? Alone? Without me?”
“With Emily.”
“No,” he stood up. “No, Blythe. We’re a family. Either together or nothing.”
I gave in, the way I had four times before. I shoved the swimsuit back into the suitcase, closed it, and tucked it away on the loft. Two‑eight‑hundred pounds – gone, non‑refundable.
Two days later, Ethel appeared in the hallway, a heavy checkered bag slung over her shoulder and a sack of home‑grown cucumbers in her hand.
“Show me what you’ve got,” she said, eyeing the corridor. “The wallpaper needs changing. Edward, are you not looking after the flat at all?”
Ethel stayed with us for three weeks. In the first two days she rearranged everything in the kitchen – pots moved to a different cupboard, spices to another shelf, the chopping board tucked under the sink “because it’s more hygienic”. I worked twelve‑hour shifts and came home to a flat where nothing was where I remembered it.
On the third day I opened a cupboard looking for a frying pan. “Ethel, I’m used to a certain order,” I said. “It’s easier when everything is in its place.”
She looked over my glasses, a heavy stare from top to bottom, even though I was a head taller.
“You, Blythe, are used to chaos,” she said. “Who puts a pan next to the rice?”
“It’s convenient for me,” I replied.
“It isn’t for me, and it isn’t for Edward. Right, Edward?”
Edward sat at the table, phone in hand, shoulders hunched as always when his mother spoke.
“Mum,” he said. “Alright then.”
That was all I heard – not “Blythe is right” nor “Mum, that’s her kitchen”. Just “Alright then”.
On the fifth day Ethel tackled the curtains. I had bought linen curtains last autumn, mustard‑coloured, chosen to match the armchair and cushions – eight pounds. I returned from work to find the curtains folded on the chair, white netting – a cheap veil Ethel had brought with her – covering the windows.
“What is this?” I asked.
“Proper curtains,” she replied, tapping the table. “Not rags. Mustard is a hospital colour, not a home colour.”
I stood silent for three seconds, then removed the netting, folded it on a stool, and began hanging my own curtains. My hands didn’t shake this time.
“What are you doing?” Ethel’s voice lowered.
“Hanging my curtains,” I said without turning. “I like my curtains. This is my home. I choose the colour.”
A heavy silence stretched five seconds. Then Ethel rose from the table and left the room. I heard her dial the phone in the hallway, her voice hushed but audible: “Edward, your wife is being rude. I’m not used to being spoken to like that.”
Edward came home earlier than usual. The door slammed, startling Emily in her room.
“What did you do?” he asked from the doorway.
“I hung my curtains.”
“Your mother’s upset! She’s brought us things, she’s tried, and you didn’t even say thank you!”
I looked at his broad shoulders, which now straightened because his mother wasn’t in the room. With her, he hunched; with me, he stood tall.
“Edward,” 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!” he snapped.
“Then why does your mother make the decisions?”
He said nothing, rubbed his nose, turned and walked back to his mother.
That evening Emily slipped into the kitchen, quiet, a textbook in her hands as if she’d just come for a glass of water.
“Mum,” she whispered, “He calls her every time before a holiday. I’ve heard it.”
“What did you hear?”
“He says, ‘Mum, we’re leaving on the 15th.’ And she arrives. Every time.”
I set the kettle on the stove and listened to it boil. It wasn’t coincidence. Four times in a row – it was a pattern.
Emily shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Mum, are you okay?”
“Fine,” I said. “Go do your homework.”
I wasn’t fine. I pulled out my phone, opened my notes, and added up the sums. Honeymoon in Brighton, three‑day package for a family of three – £1,200. Turkey two years ago – £1,900. Isle of Wight last spring – £500. This cancelled sea trip – £2,800. Total: £6,400. All gone.
Edward had taken Mum to Bath twice on spa breaks, both times using our joint money.
I closed the notes, put the phone away, poured myself tea. My hands were calm. The decision wasn’t made yet, but something inside had shifted.
A month after Ethel left, I invited my friend Claire over for dinner. Claire works with me at the pharmacy; we’ve known each other nine years.
Edward went to a mate’s house to watch the match. Emily stayed in her room. Claire and I opened a bottle of wine, sliced some cheese, and settled at the kitchen table – the first decent evening in ages.
“How are you?” Claire asked. “Where are you off to this summer?”
“Nowhere,” I replied, smiling at the familiar question.
“Again?”
“Again.”
Claire shook her head. We all knew the answer.
The doorbell rang. I opened it to find Ethel on the doorstep, bag and cucumber sack in hand.
“Edward said you’re home alone,” she said. “I thought I’d drop by. It’s been a while.”
A month – that’s a long time in our world.
She sat, saw Claire, and we all took a seat. I poured her tea; wine was not her thing.
After ten minutes the conversation was normal, then Claire asked, “Ethel, do you travel much?”
Ethel sat up straight.
“Oh, dear! Edward took me to Bath twice. Hot tubs, massages, the hills – glorious!”
She turned to me.
“And you, Blythe, where have you been lately? I haven’t seen a single photograph of you anywhere.”
I adjusted my glasses.
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
“That’s why,” Ethel said to Claire, as if explaining something obvious, “young, healthy, never goes anywhere. Edward suggests trips, she refuses. She’s to blame. I’ve gone all over Norfolk in my day.”
Claire stared at me, lips pressed together.
“Ethel,” she said, “Blythe doesn’t stay away because she doesn’t want to.”
“Then why?”
Claire fell silent, looking at me for permission to speak.
And I answered myself.
“Because every time we buy tickets, you show up,” I said, voice even. “Four times in seven years. Honeymoon – you called, we turned back. Turkey – you arrived a day before departure. Isle of Wight – same. This year – the sea. Two‑eight‑hundred pounds non‑refundable. In total, six‑four‑hundred pounds lost. I’ve counted.”
Ethel stopped tapping the table. Her hand hovered over her teacup.
“What are you on about?”
“I’m stating facts,” I replied. “No accusations. Just numbers. I can give dates if you need.”
Silence.
Claire got up, saying she had to leave. I escorted her to the door. When I returned to the kitchen, Ethel was already dialing Edward.
Twenty minutes later Edward stormed in, shoes still on.
“What are you doing, making a scene in front of strangers?” he snapped.
“I didn’t make a scene. I named the sums,” I said.
“What sums? What are you talking about?”
“The six‑four‑hundred pounds we lost on cancelled trips throughout our marriage.”
Edward looked at his mother. Ethel stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.
“Son,” she said, “either it’s me or her.”
“Mum,” Edward murmured, rubbing his nose.
“She has to apologise,” Ethel cut in.
Edward turned to me.
“Blythe, apologise to your mother.”
I took off my glasses, wiped them on the inside of my sweater. Without them everything seemed blurry – Edward, his mother, the hallway with their 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 a different answer – I saw the twitch of his chin – but I stayed silent. He shrugged, grabbed his coat and left. Ethel followed, leaving the cucumber sack in the hallway.
I sank onto a stool in the empty kitchen. My legs ached after a twelve‑hour shift, and now after all this. Inside, though, the sky was clearing after a storm.
He returned three days later. No apology, no conversation, just his coat on the back of a chair and a quiet dinner. Ethel went back to her flat in York.
A week later Edward started speaking in short bursts: “Dinner ready?”, “Where’s my shirt?”, “Pick up Emily.” I realised he was punishing me with silence for not apologising.
Within a week I began stashing money into a separate account he didn’t know about.
A year flew by. Emily turned sixteen; I got her a passport without a fuss. Edward signed the consent form without asking why. He didn’t care until Mum called.
In May I bought tickets for myself and Emily – a three‑star hotel in Costa del Sol for nine nights. I paid from my secret account – the same one I’d been building with £40 from each month’s salary. The tickets were refundable this time; I’d learned my lesson.
I turned to Edward:
“Let’s all go together in June. I’ve found a good deal.”
He looked at me as if I’d spoken another language, then nodded.
“Alright. Let’s try.”
Two weeks I waited, packing suitcases, buying Emily new sandals and a straw hat, getting a sunscreen cream at a discount for staff.
Four days before departure Edward arrived home later than usual, sat at the table, phone face down. I recognised the gesture – his phone was down, meaning he was on a call with his mother.
“Blythe,” he began.
My fingers clenched, nails digging into my palms, not from anger but from anticipation. I knew what he would 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.
“Edward, did you call her?”
“What?”
“You called her and told her we’re flying?”
He looked away, rubbed his nose. I understood – he’d called, as he always did, giving the date, the route, and Ethel had bought a train ticket on the spot, as clockwork.
“She’s missed us,” Edward said. “She’ll be seventy‑five this year.”
“Seventy‑four,” I corrected. “She’ll be seventy‑five in November.”
He waved a hand.
“It doesn’t matter. Mum’s coming. The sea won’t disappear.”
And then it hit me – seven years of hearing “the sea won’t disappear”. Every swimsuit with its tag. Every suitcase opened and closed. Six‑four‑hundred pounds gone. Four cancelled trips. Twelve‑hour shifts cracking the skin on my hands.
“Fine,” I said.
Edward exhaled, relaxed, thinking I’d given up again.
“Good girl,” he said. “I’ll call Mum and ask her to take the spare bedding – we haven’t much left.”
I nodded, left the kitchen, and went into Emily’s room.
“Get ready,” I told her. “We’re flying the day after tomorrow.”
Emily looked up from her phone.
“He said—”
“I know what he said. Pack your bag – swimsuit, books, charger. I have the passport.”
Emily stared for a few seconds, then smiled – the first smile in weeks – and grabbed her backpack.
I returned to the kitchen. Edward was at the table, phone pressed to his ear, discussing with Ethel what sheets to bring.
“Edward,” I said, “I’m not cancelling the tickets.”
He lifted his head.
“What do you mean?”
“Literally. I’m flying with Emily. You stay and greet Mum.”
The line went dead. Ethel on the other end must have fallen silent too.
“You’re serious?” he asked.
“Seven years, Edward. Seven years without a break. Four times we lost money. I work six days a week, twelve hours a day, my hands cracking from the antiseptic. I’m forty‑eight. I want to see the sea.”
“What about Mum?”
“TellI finally told him that after all the years of putting everyone else first, I deserved to claim my own happiness, and that was the only lesson I would carry forward.
