It’s been four years since I last spoke to my own mother. And no, I don’t feel guilty about it.
When I got married, I was only twenty-two. My husband, Andrew, and I had just finished uni and moved into a tiny, run-down but rented flat on the outskirts of Brighton. Money was tight, but back then, it didn’t seem like a big deal—we were young, in love, and dreaming about the future.
We took any job we could. Andrew worked non-stop, picking up shifts on construction sites, doing deliveries, and even pulling night shifts as a security guard. I wasn’t sitting around either—mornings at the shop, evenings tutoring. All just to save up for our own place, even if it was a cramped one-bed flat with a mortgage.
A little over a year later, at my mum’s birthday, Andrew suddenly dropped the idea—why don’t we move in with his parents while he does a full refurb on their flat? Supposedly, Mum promised not to charge us a penny. I was stunned—he hadn’t even discussed it with me first. But everyone—Mum, him—pushed hard. *”It’s better this way, saves money, helps family.”* I gave in.
At the time, my younger sister, Emily, was already eighteen. She was barely home, always out with friends or sleeping over somewhere. She and Andrew weren’t close, but Mum adored him. To her, he was the perfect son-in-law—laying tiles, redoing wallpaper, fixing taps. And, of course, helping her retired mates next door—not because he wanted to, but because Mum insisted.
Dad was thrilled—finally, no one was dragging him to fix strangers’ cupboards or tighten taps in their bathrooms.
But Emily and I? It was constant tension. She picked fights over nothing, looking for any excuse to blow up. I ignored it—I knew she wanted us gone. So I kept quiet.
One Friday, my parents went to their cottage, leaving just Andrew and me in the flat. He was finishing the kitchen floor; I was cleaning the windows. Then Emily brought home some bloke—scruffy, unshaven, in a crumpled hoodie and muddy trainers. They stayed in her room for hours, then left. I didn’t say anything—she’s an adult, her choices.
The next evening, Dad realised money was missing—a decent chunk saved for car repairs. Mum, of course, went straight for Emily. And me, like an idiot, mentioned the “guest.” I thought the truth would sort things out fairly.
Guess who got the blame? Me.
*”Why didn’t you tell me?!”* Mum screamed. *”I’ve told her a thousand times—no boys in the house! What if she got pregnant? Would you pay for that?!”*
I tried explaining she was eighteen, not my responsibility. But Mum just escalated. Then, out of nowhere, she threw us out. Literally. Onto the street. No warning. Just shouting:
*”I’m sick of you two! Done with the repairs? Brilliant. Now sod off!”*
Dad stood in the corner like a ghost, then got his own earful: *”If you knew how to fix anything, I wouldn’t need your son-in-law!”*
That was it. We left. Andrew stayed silent. I sobbed.
Mum called later, asking us to come back. I didn’t answer. Haven’t since. Four years now.
We started renting again, pinching every penny, and now—we’ve got our own place. Small, mortgaged, but ours. Signing the papers in December.
Emily married that bloke, by the way. Yeah, that “tramp.” Now they’re living with my parents. Andrew jokes, *”See? That refurb wasn’t wasted.”* He’s not lifting a finger there. No one’s kicking them out—Mum treats them like royalty.
Sometimes it stings to the point of tears. We gave everything—time, energy, sanity—only to be tossed out. For telling the truth. For no longer being *convenient.* Now, with a real problem under her roof, she stays quiet.
But fine. Let her be. We won’t go back. And if something happens—theft, lies, hurt—we won’t lift a finger. We’ve already done all we could.
Now, I’ve got my own life. No mum’s nagging, no tears, no shouting. And you know what? It’s so much lighter this way.
