“Won’t you take me in with you?” my mother asked bitterly. But I already knew the answer…
My name is Emily. I’m thirty-eight and have been married for fifteen years. My husband, James, and I have a son, a lovely house, and everything one could wish for—except peace with my mother. Or rather, her decade-long war with James, a battle neither side seems willing to surrender.
James came to our town from a tiny village up north. Back then, he dreamed of university but didn’t get in on his first try. So, he took a job as a plumber, scraping by in a shared flat while studying in the evenings. No complaints, no excuses. Eventually, he got into uni, kept working, and became brilliant at his trade. That’s where we met—I was a year ahead, but sparks flew anyway.
When I graduated, we decided to marry. My mother? Less than thrilled.
“A *plumber*? Have you lost your mind? Some village boy with no prospects, no house!” she fumed.
I convinced her to let us stay with her—just until James finished his degree. She agreed, sour-faced. From day one, she treated him like an intruder. In the first fortnight, he fixed everything: the leaky tap, the dodgy oven, even the balcony door that hadn’t shut properly in years. Her thanks? Cold shoulders and snide remarks.
“I’m not putting you on the lease, lad!” she snapped once. James just shrugged. “Didn’t ask.”
He bore it all. But I saw how it wore him down. Then I got pregnant… and the storm hit.
“You’re mad! Having a child with that bumpkin? I can barely stand him under my roof!” she shrieked.
James heard. Wordlessly, he packed his bags. “You come with me, or I go alone,” he said. “But I won’t live under her roof anymore.”
I left. We moved into his tiny digs in a shared house. Our son was born. It was hard. But I never regretted it. James worked, studied, took odd jobs. Two years later, we bought a one-bed flat. Then a two-bed. Now, we’re in a proper three-bed house. He’s an engineer at a top firm, earns well—and still takes plumbing jobs because, frankly, he’s brilliant at it.
But since that day, James hasn’t set foot in my mother’s house. No holidays, no accidental run-ins. His line is firm: “I’ll send money if she needs it. But I won’t see her. She doesn’t get to know me now.”
Mum took years to grasp it. Even now, she’s wounded. “You’re just his puppet! What if I fall ill? Will you abandon me too?”
I brought it up with James once. “What if she really can’t manage alone?”
He didn’t hesitate. “We’ll hire a carer. You’ll visit. She’ll want for nothing—except a place in our lives. My limit is your doorstep.”
I thought about it. He’s right. He doesn’t owe forgiveness to someone who mocked him for fixing taps—then called him worthless for it. He’s grown. She hasn’t.
Last week, she rang in a rage. “The bathroom pipe’s leaking, and you won’t even ask James to look!”
“Mum,” I said calmly, “he’s transferred the money for a plumber. Call one.”
She hung up. Sulking. But I don’t regret it.
Sometimes I think that night—when I left with James for that cramped shared house—was the real turning point. I chose family. Chose the man who never let us down, who built everything from scratch and never let bitterness break him. And I won’t let anyone break him now.
Let Mum sulk. She had time. She had chances. She just didn’t take them.
