My mum’s always been the kindest soul. Her whole life, she gave everything for me and my sister. She worked as a schoolteacher, tutored in the evenings—anything to make sure we never went without. We lost our dad early—he left when I was just six, and my sister only three. Mum carried the weight of the world alone, never complained, never cried—just kept going, no matter what.
We grew up in my nan’s old flat in Manchester, which Mum inherited. Life was simple but warm. After school, my sister and I went to uni, got married, had kids. We’d visit Mum often, and she’d dote on the grandkids, cook our favourite meals, laugh. We thought she was happy—that our love, our hugs, our calls were enough. But we were wrong.
That year, we planned a surprise for her birthday. Told her we couldn’t make it—pretended we were swamped at work. Secretly, we were already on the road with balloons, flowers, a cake. When she opened the door, there wasn’t joy in her eyes—just panic. She stammered something about a student coming over. We exchanged a glance, then walked in.
A man was sitting at the table. In just his boxers. Cigarette in his mouth, pint on the table. And sure—this was her “student.” Except he was balding, middle-aged, definitely not a teenager. We froze, said nothing. The second he saw us, he jumped up, muttered something about an emergency at work, and bolted.
Mum, though? She was furious. Said we’d ambushed her, invaded her privacy. For six months after, she wouldn’t speak to us—no calls, no texts. I hoped she’d cool off. Then I went alone to make peace, tell her we didn’t mind her having someone.
He opened the door. Same bloke. First words out of his mouth? “She’s not here. And don’t bother coming back.” I tried to explain, but he just… shoved me. I fell, hit my head. Doctors said it was a concussion. When my husband found out, he stormed over—but instead of support, he got threats. Mum claimed I’d started it, that I’d attacked *him*. She took his side. The side of the man who’d laid hands on me.
We tried tracking him down, but he’d vanished. Weeks passed, then one of Mum’s students messaged me—begging for money, saying she was in trouble. I panicked. Mum wasn’t answering. I warned all our relatives—don’t send her a penny, she’s fine. Except I had no idea if she was.
Nearly a year later, out of nowhere—she called. Sobbing. Voice shaking. And then she told us everything.
Turns out, her “boyfriend” had been in cahoots with his real girlfriend the whole time. They were after her flat. He’d been turning her against us, and she’d almost signed it over. Then she found his texts to the other woman. Kicked him out then and there. Left alone, broken. Only then did she remember us.
We drove to her that same day. Held her while she cried. She pulled away, begged forgiveness. We gave it. Because she’s still our mum. A lonely, tired woman who just wanted love—and got betrayal instead.
Now she’s back with us. Baking pies, playing with the grandkids. But sometimes she still glances at the window—checking, just in case. And we pray every day he never comes back.
