“You only remember the word family when there’s square footage to grab, a place to move into, and rights to start demanding.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!” Patricia flared. “I’m doing this for you two! Do you think I enjoy watching my son live like some temporary guest in another person’s home?”
“He isn’t a temporary guest. He’s an adult man who has spent two years saying he’s about to start making more money, and somehow still borrows from his wife before every paycheck.”
Ryan dropped the chicken bone onto his plate with a sharp clatter.
“What are you bringing that up for?”
“Because I’m tired of pretending this marriage is balanced. And since you’ve decided to hold a family council in my kitchen, let’s stop decorating the truth. Who pays the utilities? I do. Who helped pay off your mother’s country house loan last fall? I did. Do you want me to remind you of the amount? Whose car got repaired with my money because his job was ‘late paying him’? Mine again. And now I’m supposed to listen to everyone mourn over the poor boy who doesn’t feel like the master of the house.”
“You’re throwing money in my face?” Ryan shot to his feet. “Are you serious right now?”
“No. I’m stating facts. There’s a difference.”
Patricia slapped her palm against the table.
“You’ve crushed him with your money! That’s what you are. Receipts, transfers, calculations—that’s all you understand. A wife is supposed to respect her husband, not keep a ledger on him.”
“A wife isn’t obligated to do anything when people are trying to make her look like an idiot in her own kitchen,” Emily said coldly. “And spare me the lectures on how a proper household should work. Run your own home. Not mine.”
Linda gave a strained little smile.
“Why is everyone getting so worked up? It could be handled calmly. Put part of the apartment in his name, and that’s that. He’ll feel secure. You’ll have peace. His mother won’t worry. And the renovation can be done at the same time.”
“Listen,” Emily said, and this time she actually laughed under her breath, “that part about the renovation is especially touching. Did you at least sketch out the whole plan? First a share of the apartment, then registration at this address, then ‘Linda can stay just for a little while,’ then ‘we’ll only bring in one wardrobe,’ then ‘let’s enclose the balcony, it’s all shared money anyway,’ and after that I’ll be told I’m petty and ungrateful?”
Ryan’s mouth twisted.
“This is exactly why nobody can talk to you. You always assume there’s some trap.”
“Because the trap is usually already sitting at the table finishing the chicken.”
He took a step toward her.
“You’re going too far.”
“No, Ryan. Too far is your mother standing in front of a living wife, measuring out her apartment and deciding which walls should come down. I’m only calling things what they are.”
Patricia rose, planting both hands on her hips.
“Then here’s how it is. Either you stop acting like some little landowner, or this marriage of yours won’t last long.”
“Is that a threat?” Emily lifted one eyebrow.
“A warning. A man won’t stay where he’s reminded every day that nothing belongs to him.”
“Oh? And it doesn’t matter that he hasn’t suggested a single thing himself except his mother’s ideas?”
“I did suggest something!” Ryan snapped. “I said we should live normally. Without your endless ‘this is mine, that was my grandmother’s, don’t touch that.’ What am I supposed to be here, a museum guard?”
“You’re not a guard. You’re a man who confused marriage with free admission to real estate.”
“Choke on your apartment, then!”
“Perfect. That settles it.”
Emily set the grocery bag on the windowsill, opened the hallway closet, and began pulling out Ryan’s things with calm, deliberate movements. His jacket went onto the floor. Then his jeans. A gym bag landed at his feet. A box of cables, chargers, and random electronics followed on top.
“What are you doing?” he asked, stunned.
“Helping you find emotional comfort. If you’re so uncomfortable here, go somewhere you’re recognized as the owner the moment you step inside. Your mother’s place.”
“Emily!” Patricia screamed. “Have you lost your mind?”
“Not at all. I don’t think I’ve been this clearheaded in five years.”
“You’re throwing your husband out?”
“No, Patricia. I’m removing a problem from my apartment. For some reason, you all kept calling it family.”
Ryan moved toward the closet and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket.
“Stop putting on a show.”
“The show ended the second you all decided to divide up my apartment without me. What you’re watching now is the final scene. Performers exit to the left.”
Linda was the first to stand.
“I think I’ll go. Honestly, I don’t need this kind of drama.”
“A very sensible choice,” Emily said with a nod. “And don’t forget your bags. They’re so expressive. They ruin the mood all by themselves.”
Patricia’s face turned a deep red.
“How dare you! I’m twice your age!”
“And? Experience is supposed to bring tact, not entitlement.”
“You ungrateful girl! We came to you with open hearts!”
“People with open hearts usually come with cake and ring the doorbell. Not with a tape measure and a plan for who gets moved in for a month.”
Ryan reached for her elbow.
“Let’s do this calmly. No circus. We can talk it all through.”
Emily jerked her arm away.
“It’s too late for calm. Calm was possible yesterday. The day before. A week ago. Back when you could have said, ‘Mom, stay out of this.’ You said nothing. You sat there waiting for me to swallow it. I’m not swallowing it.”
“You’re making a scene.”
“And you’re selling yourself cheap. All for half an apartment, you handed yourself over along with the kitchen stool.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Right, of course. I’m bought and paid for now. And you’re a saint, I suppose.”
“No. I’m exhausted. And furious. Which is still more honest than this family performance of yours.”
Patricia was almost hissing now.
“You’ll end up alone. With that personality, no one will put up with you.”
“Wonderful. At least no one will be measuring my hallway for a wardrobe.”
“Who would even want you?”
“Today? Definitely not you. And that already feels like a holiday.”
Linda, standing in the entryway, muttered, “Ryan, come on already. Why drag this out?”
But Ryan didn’t move. He stared at Emily as if he were seeing her for the first time.
“So that’s it? Just like that? Over one issue?”
“No, Ryan. Not over one issue. Over you. Over the fact that you’re not a husband, you’re an attachment to your mother. Over the fact that your answer to any serious problem is always, ‘Emily, don’t get worked up.’ Over the fact that it’s convenient for you to live off me and then act offended because I don’t hand you the keys to everything at once. Over the fact that even now, you still don’t understand what the problem is.”
Ryan snatched up the bag in a burst of anger.