My mum had always been a woman of great kindness. Her whole life was devoted to me and my sister. She worked as a schoolteacher, tutoring in the evenings so we’d never want for anything. We lost Dad early—he left when I was just six, and my sister only three. Mum carried the weight alone, never complaining, never shedding a tear—just pushing forward as best she could.
We grew up in our grandmother’s flat in London, which Mum inherited. Life was simple but warm. After school, my sister and I went to university, married, had children. We visited often, and Mum adored doting on her grandchildren, baking pies, laughing. We thought she was content—that our love was enough. But it wasn’t.
That year, for her birthday, my sister and I planned a surprise. We pretended work had kept us away, then secretly set off with balloons, flowers, and cake. When she opened the door, there wasn’t joy in her eyes—just confusion. She hesitated, muttering about a student who’d come for tutoring. We exchanged glances, then stepped inside.
A man sat at the table. In his boxers. A cigarette between his lips, a pint of lager in hand. And yes—this was his “student.” A grown, balding man, far from school age. We froze but said nothing. He leapt up, mumbled something about an urgent work call, then bolted.
Mum was furious. Hurt that we’d shown up unannounced. For six months, she ignored us—no calls, no replies. I hoped she’d cool down, then went alone to mend things, to say we supported her happiness.
He opened the door. The same man. Before I could speak, he snapped, “She’s not here. And you shouldn’t come back.” I tried to explain—then he shoved me. I fell, hit my head. Concussion. When my husband rushed over for answers, Mum hurled accusations: *I* had attacked *him*, caused the scene. She took his side—the man who’d laid hands on me.
We searched for him, but he vanished. Weeks later, one of Mum’s students messaged me, desperate for money, saying Mum was in trouble. I panicked. Mum wouldn’t answer. I warned the family—don’t send a penny—though I had no idea what was happening.
Nearly a year passed. Then—a call. Mum. Sobbing. Voice shaking. And the truth spilled out.
Her charming “beau” had been in league with his real girlfriend the whole time. They’d planned to swindle her out of the flat. He’d turned her against us. She nearly signed it over—until she stumbled on their texts. She threw him out. Only then, broken and empty, did she remember us.
We drove to her that night. Held her as she wept, begging forgiveness. Of course we gave it. She’s still our mum. A woman starved for love who found betrayal instead.
Now she’s home with us again. Baking, playing with the grandkids. But sometimes she glances out the window—checking, just in case. And we pray he never comes back.
