The Peacock’s Mask Fell Off
That morning, Valerie rang her daughter at work. Her voice sounded hoarse and strained:
“Emily… I feel awful. I nearly fainted right on the street…”
“Mum, where are you? I’ll leave right now! Did you call Dad?”
“He’s gone fishing with his mates. No signal. I’m near your place… but I can’t make it on my own.”
Fifteen minutes later, Emily was guiding her mother to the front door, her throat tight with worry—Mum’s heart had been troubling her lately, and every call like this felt like an alarm. She slid the key into the lock and froze.
From the bedroom came unmistakable, shameful noises. She flung the door open—and there was her husband, Daniel, the so-called “brilliant artist,” scrambling out from under the covers, while a strange young woman hurried to gather her things.
“You?!” Emily’s voice shook. “How could you? You said you were at the studio all night! And you called Mum paranoid!”
“Come on, don’t blow it out of proportion,” Daniel whined, clutching the duvet. “These things happen. We’re artists. Passion, inspiration, spontaneity—”
“Spontaneity?!” Emily shrieked. “Pack your bags and get out! Go cry to your mum or freeze in that miserable studio of yours!”
There had always been quiet war between mother-in-law and son-in-law. Valerie thought him a pretentious fraud, strutting about in his glittery trousers, purple-tipped hair, and that ridiculous little beard, prattling on about “defying conventions.”
“When are you getting a proper job, Danny?” she’d grumble. “Doodling isn’t paying bills. Who buys your paintings—once in a blue moon? What’s your plan?”
“Valerie,” he’d drawl, “you don’t get it. Emily’s lucky to have a man like me. I’m one of a kind. You? Just a nag.”
He’d even insulted her cooking at their first meeting. She’d roasted a joint and baked a blackberry pie, only for him to sniff, “I don’t eat meat. Rectangular tables suffocate my soul.” Yet days later, she spotted him outside a burger joint, demolishing a double stack. That’s when the doubt crept in—what else was he hiding?
Emily waved it off. “Mum, maybe it wasn’t him—”
“Who else struts about in a neon jacket like a peacock?”
Then came the parties in the flat Emily inherited—raucous nights, half-dressed “muses,” angry neighbours. Once, after complaints, Valerie arrived unannounced. She opened the door to a bacchanal: girls with hookahs, lads with bottles, Daniel holding court.
“What is this?!” she barked. “Out—now!”
“We’re launching an art collective!” he protested. “People dream of being here!”
“Let them keep dreaming!” she snapped. “And you—clean this mess! No more ‘creative gatherings’!”
His tactic was to grin and bear it. He even invited her to an exhibition. But as she lingered near a dim alcove, she overheard:
“When can I see you?” giggled a young voice.
“Once Emily’s at her shift, I’ll text.”
“Sent you pics… Miss you. Dump your wife!”
“We’ll see,” Daniel murmured.
Valerie stepped forward. He didn’t flinch:
“Running to Emily? Go on. She won’t believe you. To her, you’re just the bitter old hag. I’m the golden boy. So shut it, Grandma.”
But she didn’t. And though Emily scoffed—”Stay out of my marriage!”—Valerie took action. She befriended a neighbour who agreed to watch. Then, the call:
“He brought a girl home. Lights off—she’s staying over.”
Her heart pounded. Emily was on night shift. Valerie threw on her coat, stepped outside, and rang her daughter, whispering:
“Emily, I’m ill. My heart… I’m near yours…”
Emily arrived in fifteen minutes. They went up. Opened the door. And then—it unfolded as it had to. Screaming, tears, the girl shoved out. Daniel, half-dressed, babbled excuses. Emily stopped listening.
By morning, the locks were changed. Divorce papers filed within the week. Only a month later did Emily finally ask:
“Mum… that day. Did you fake it? Were you really ill?”
Valerie met her gaze. Breathed.
“Of course I was. How could I know who he’d bring?”
Emily nodded and hugged her—first time in years.
Valerie said nothing. No need to admit that for her daughter, she’d play any part. Even a tiny, very useful lie.
