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, Oliver, and I had freshly graduated university and moved into a tiny, scruffy-but-ours rented flat in the outskirts of Manchester. Money was tight, but back then, it felt trivial—we were young, in love, and dreaming of the future.
We took any job going. Oliver worked seven days a week—construction gigs, courier shifts, overnight security. I wasn’t idle either: morning shifts at a shop, tutoring in the evenings. All to save up for our own place, even a one-bed flat with a mortgage.
A little over a year later, at Mum’s birthday party, Oliver casually dropped a bombshell over his glass of prosecco: “We could move in with your parents while I do up their place.” Supposedly, Mum had promised not to charge us a penny. I was stunned—he hadn’t even discussed it with me. But everyone—Mum, Oliver, even Dad—piled on: “It’s practical! You’ll save money! Family helps family!” So, I caved.
My younger sister, Gemma, was eighteen by then. She was hardly ever home, always out with friends or sleeping over somewhere. She and Oliver barely spoke, but Mum adored him. He became her golden son-in-law—laying tiles, re-wallpapering, fixing leaks. Even the neighbours, her elderly bridge club ladies, got free handiwork. Not because he enjoyed it, mind you, but because Mum insisted.
Dad was thrilled—finally, someone else could be roped into fixing wonky shelves and dripping taps.
Gemma, though, had it in for me. She nitpicked everything, picking fights over nothing. I bit my tongue, knowing she just wanted us gone.
One Friday, while our parents were at their countryside cottage, Oliver and I had the flat to ourselves. He was finishing the kitchen flooring; I was cleaning windows. Then Gemma waltzed in with some bloke. Scruffy, unshaven, shoes caked in mud—the sort you’d cross the street to avoid. They holed up in her room for hours before vanishing. I, being a grown woman, didn’t interfere—her life, her choices.
The next evening, Dad realised a chunk of cash—saved for car repairs—had gone missing. Mum, predictably, tore into Gemma. And me, like an idiot, mentioned the “guest.” Figured honesty was the best policy.
Guess who got blamed? Me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Mum shrieked. “I’ve told her a thousand times—no boys in the house! What if she got pregnant? Would you pay to raise it?”
I pointed out Gemma was an adult—not my kid, not my job to police her. Mum only escalated. Eventually, she threw us out. Literally. Onto the pavement. No discussion. Just:
“You’ve overstayed your welcome! Done your renovations? Brilliant. Now sod off!”
Dad lurked in the corner like a ghost before catching his own earful: “If you knew how to fix anything, I wouldn’t need your son-in-law!”
That was that. We left. Oliver stayed silent. I sobbed.
Mum called later, begging us to return. I didn’t answer. Haven’t since. Four years now.
We went back to renting, pinching every penny, and now—we’ve got our own place. Small, mortgaged, but ours. Signing the paperwork in December.
As for Gemma? She married that bloke. Yes, the “tramp.” They’re living with Mum and Dad now. Oliver jokes, “Well, at least the renovations weren’t wasted.” Not a single nail he’s obliged to hammer there. No one’s kicking them out—Mum treats them like royalty.
Sometimes, it stings. We gave everything—time, energy, sanity—only to be tossed out for telling the truth. For no longer being “useful.” Now, with an actual problem under her roof, Mum’s mute.
But fine. Let her be. We’re not going back. And if trouble comes knocking—theft, lies, tears—we won’t lift a finger. We’ve done enough.
Now? I’ve got my own life. No scolding, no screaming, no guilt. And honestly? It’s a relief.
