April 12th, 2024
It’s been four years since I last spoke to my mother. And no, I don’t feel guilty.
I got married at twenty-two. Tom and I had just finished university and moved into a shabby little rented flat in the outskirts of Manchester. Money was tight, but it didn’t matter—we were young, in love, and dreaming of the future.
We took any work we could find. Tom pulled double shifts—construction gigs, courier jobs, night shifts as a security guard. I didn’t sit idle either: morning shifts at the supermarket, evenings tutoring. All to save for a place of our own, even if it was a tiny flat with a mortgage.
Just over a year later, at my mother’s birthday, Tom casually dropped the idea of us moving in with my parents while he renovated their house. Said she’d promised not to charge us a penny. I was stunned—he hadn’t even discussed it with me. But he and Mum pushed hard: “It’ll save money, we’ll help out, family first.” I gave in.
My younger sister Emily was eighteen, barely home—always out with mates or crashing at friends’. She and Tom weren’t close, but Mum adored him. To her, he was the perfect son-in-law: tiling bathrooms, repainting walls, fixing taps. Even helping her retired neighbours, though not out of kindness—because Mum asked.
Dad was relieved. No more being pestered to fix other people’s cupboards or leaky sinks.
Emily, though, was another story. She picked fights over nothing, deliberately winding me up. I ignored it—she wanted us gone. I kept quiet.
One Friday, my parents were away at their holiday home. Tom was finishing the kitchen floor; I was cleaning windows. Emily brought some bloke home—looked like he’d been dragged through a hedge: unshaven, scuffed boots, crumpled jacket. 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 missing—a sizable amount saved for car repairs. Mum tore into Emily, and like a fool, I mentioned the “guest.” Thought fairness would prevail.
Guess who got the blame? Me.
“You should’ve told me!” Mum screamed. “I’ve told her a thousand times—no boys in this house! What if she got pregnant? Would you raise the kid?”
I tried reminding her Emily was eighteen—not my job to police her. Mum only escalated. Then she threw us out. Literally. No explanations, just: “You’ve overstayed your welcome. Done the repairs? Good. Now piss off.”
Dad stood silent in the corner until she turned on him: “If you had half his skills, I wouldn’t need a son-in-law to fix anything!”
That was it. We left. Tom didn’t say a word. I sobbed the whole way.
Mum called later, asking us to return. I didn’t pick up. Haven’t since. Four years now.
We scrabbled back into rented digs, pinched every penny, and now—we’ve got our own place. Small, mortgaged, but ours. Papers get signed in December.
Emily married that bloke, by the way. That “waster.” They live with Mum and Dad now. Tom jokes, “Guess the renovations weren’t wasted.” But he’s not lifting a finger there. No one’s kicking them out—Mum treats them like royalty.
Sometimes, it stings. We gave everything—time, sweat, sanity—only to be tossed aside for telling the truth. Because we stopped being “useful.” Now, with a real problem under her roof, Mum’s silent.
Fine. Let her be. We’re not going back. And if trouble comes knocking—theft, lies, drama—we won’t lift a hand. We’ve done enough.
Now? My life’s mine. No guilt, no shouting matches, no tears. And you know what? It’s better this way.
Lesson learned: Blood doesn’t mean loyalty—sometimes, it’s just the first to betray you.
