My mum had always been a woman with a heart too big for her own good. She spent her whole life looking after my sister and me, working as a schoolteacher by day and tutoring in the evenings just to make ends meet. We lost our dad early—he walked out when I was six and my sister was barely three. Mum carried the weight of the world on her shoulders without a word of complaint, just soldiering on the best she could.
We lived in her mum’s old flat in Manchester, which she’d inherited. Life was simple but warm. After school, my sister and I went off to uni, got married, had kids. We visited Mum often—she’d fuss over her grandchildren, bake their favourite biscuits, laugh with us. We thought she was happy—that our love, our hugs, our phone calls were enough. Turns out, they weren’t.
That year, for her birthday, my sister and I decided to surprise her. We lied and said work was keeping us away, while secretly piling into the car with balloons, flowers, and a Victoria sponge. When she opened the door, though, there was no delighted gasp—just flustered panic. She mumbled something about a student coming over for extra lessons. My sister and I exchanged a look. Then we stepped inside.
There he was—a bloke in his underpants, cig hanging from his mouth, a pint on the table. This was her “student,” alright—only he was a middle-aged, balding man who’d clearly left school decades ago. We were stunned silent. The moment he saw us, he leapt up, muttered something about an emergency at work, and bolted.
Mum, on the other hand, was furious. She accused us of barging in unannounced. For six months after, she didn’t speak to us—no calls, no texts. I waited, hoping she’d cool off. Eventually, I went alone to make peace, to say we didn’t mind her having someone.
He answered the door. “She’s not here,” he said coldly. “And frankly, you lot should stop turning up.” I tried to explain, but then—he shoved me. I fell, hit my head. The diagnosis? A concussion. When my husband found out, he raced round to Mum’s. Instead of sympathy, he got threats and accusations—she claimed I’d started the fight, that I’d attacked her “man.” And she took his side. The side of the man who’d laid hands on me.
We tried tracking him down, but he’d vanished. Then, weeks later, one of Mum’s former students messaged me, desperate for money, saying she was in dire straits. Mum wasn’t answering her calls. I warned the whole family—don’t send her a single penny, she’s fine. Except I had no idea if she was.
Nearly a year passed. Then—the call. Mum, sobbing, voice trembling, spilling the truth.
Turned out, her “gentleman caller” had been working with his real girlfriend all along. They’d been plotting to swindle her out of the flat. He’d been the one poisoning her against us. She’d almost signed the place over to him—until she stumbled on his messages to the other woman. She kicked him out that very day.
Left alone, shattered, she finally remembered us.
My husband and I drove straight over. Held her. Let her cry. She begged for forgiveness. We gave it—because she’s still Mum. Just a weary, lonely woman who wanted love and got betrayal instead.
Now she’s back with us, baking flapjacks, playing with the grandkids. But sometimes she glances out the window, as if checking—just in case. And we pray he never comes knocking again.
