It’s been four years since I last spoke to my own mother. And no, I’m not ashamed.
When I got married, I was just twenty-two. My husband, James, and I had only finished university and moved into a small, run-down but rented flat on the outskirts of London. Money was tight, but back then, it hardly mattered—we were young, in love, and dreaming of the future.
We took any job we could. James worked nonstop, picking up shifts on construction sites, delivering parcels, and even pulling night shifts as a security guard. I wasn’t idle either—mornings at a shop, evenings tutoring. Every penny went into savings for our own place, even if it meant taking out a mortgage for a tiny one-bed flat.
A little over a year later, at my mum’s birthday party, James suddenly floated the idea that we could move in with my parents while he gave their place a proper refurbishment. Mum, he claimed, had promised not to charge us a penny. I was stunned—he hadn’t even discussed it with me. But everyone—Mum, James—pushed: *”It’s practical, saves money, helps family.”* I gave in.
My younger sister, Emily, was eighteen then. She was hardly ever home, always out with friends or sleeping over at theirs. She and James barely spoke, but Mum adored him. To her, he was the perfect son-in-law—laying tiles, repapering walls, fixing taps. He even helped her retired neighbours, though not out of enthusiasm—just because Mum asked.
Dad was relieved—no more being dragged into fixing other people’s cupboards or tightening taps in strangers’ bathrooms.
But Emily and I? We didn’t get along. She picked fights over nothing, looking for any excuse to argue. I ignored it, knowing she just wanted us gone. I stayed quiet.
One Friday, my parents went to their countryside cottage, leaving just me and James at home. He was finishing the kitchen floor; I was cleaning windows. Then Emily brought a boy home. He looked like trouble—unshaven, crumpled jacket, filthy trainers. They holed up in her room for hours before leaving. I didn’t interfere—she was an adult, responsible for herself.
The next evening, Dad noticed money was missing—a decent sum, saved for car repairs. Mum, of course, lashed out at Emily, and like an idiot, I mentioned the visitor. I thought the truth would settle things fairly.
Guess who got blamed? Me.
*”Why didn’t you tell me?”* Mum screamed. *”I’ve told her a thousand times—no boys in the house! And if she got pregnant, would you be the one supporting her?”*
I tried to explain that at eighteen, she wasn’t my responsibility. Mum only got louder. Then she threw us out. Just like that. No explanation. Just shouts:
*”I’m sick of you both! Done the repairs? Good. Now get out!”*
Dad stood in the corner like a ghost before catching his own share: *”If you were any good at fixing things, I wouldn’t have needed your son-in-law!”*
That was it. We left. James stayed silent. I sobbed.
Mum called later, asking us to come back. I didn’t pick up. Haven’t since. Four years now.
We went back to renting, scrimping every pound, and now—we’ve got our own place. Small, mortgaged, but ours. We’re signing the papers in December.
Emily married that boy—the scruffy one. Now they live with Mum and Dad. James jokes, *”At least the refurb wasn’t wasted.”* He doesn’t lift a finger there. No one’s kicking them out—Mum treats them like royalty.
Sometimes it stings. We gave everything—time, effort, sanity—only to be tossed aside. Because we told the truth. Because we *”stopped being convenient.”* Now, with real trouble under her roof, she’s silent.
But fine. Let her be. We won’t go back. If something happens—theft, lies, hurt—we won’t help. We’ve done enough.
Now? I’ve got my own life. No nagging, no tears, no shouting. And you know what? It’s easier this way.
