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 only twenty-two. Me and my husband, Andrew, had just finished uni and moved into a small, run-down but cosy rented flat on the outskirts of Brighton. Money was tight, but back then it didn’t matter—we were young, in love, and dreaming about the future.
We took any job we could. Andrew worked non-stop—construction gigs, courier jobs, even night shifts as a security guard. I wasn’t sitting around either—morning shifts at a shop, evenings tutoring. All to save up for our own place, even if it meant getting a tiny one-bedder on a mortgage.
A little over a year passed. At my mum’s birthday, right after the toast, Andrew suddenly dropped the idea: how about we move in with my parents while he does a full renovation for them? Mum, apparently, promised not to charge us a penny. I was stunned—he hadn’t even talked to me about it first. But everyone—Mum, him—pushed: “It’s better this way, saves money, helps family.” I gave in.
At the time, my little sister Chloe was eighteen. She was barely ever home, always out with friends or sleeping over at theirs. She and Andrew didn’t talk much, but Mum adored him. He became her perfect son-in-law—laying tiles, re-wallpapering, fixing taps. Even helping her retired friends next door—not because he wanted to, but because Mum asked.
Dad was thrilled. Finally, no one was dragging him to fix strangers’ wardrobes or tighten taps in their bathrooms.
But things with Chloe? Awful. She picked fights over nothing, always looking for a reason to argue. I tried to ignore it—figured she just wanted us gone. So I kept quiet.
One Friday, my parents went to their cottage, leaving just me and Andrew at home. He was finishing the kitchen floor; I was cleaning windows. Then Chloe brought some bloke over. And honestly? He looked like trouble—scruffy, wrinkled jacket, muddy boots. They holed up in her room for hours before leaving. I didn’t interfere—she’s an adult, I thought, let her handle her own life.
The next evening, Dad realised a chunk of money—set aside for car repairs—was gone. Mum, of course, tore into Chloe. And me, like an idiot, mentioned the ‘guest.’ Thought it’d all be sorted 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 pay for it?!”
I tried to explain—she’s eighteen, I’m not her mum or babysitter. But Mum just spiralled. Then she threw us out—just like that. No warning. Just:
“You’re driving me mad! Finished the reno? Great. Now get out!”
Dad stood in the corner like a ghost, then copped his own earful:
“If you could actually fix things, I wouldn’t need a son-in-law to do it!”
And that was it. We left. Andrew stayed quiet. I sobbed.
Mum called later, asked us to come back. I didn’t pick up. 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 papers in December.
Chloe? She married that guy. Yeah, the ‘scruffy’ one. Now they live with Mum and Dad. Andrew jokes, “Guess the reno wasn’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 get thrown out. Because we told the truth. Because we ‘stopped being convenient.’ Now, with a real problem under her roof? Silence.
But fine. Let her live. We won’t go back. And if something happens again—robbed, scammed, hurt—we won’t help. We’ve already done enough.
Now? I’ve got my own life. No mum’s nagging, no tears, no shouting. And you know what? It’s so much easier.
