“Who are you bringing into our home, son…?”
Eleanor Whitaker had spent all day in the kitchen. She’d prepared his favourite dishes—roast chicken with crisp golden skin, shepherd’s pie, and a treacle tart cooling on the windowsill. Tonight was special—her son, Oliver, was bringing his fiancée home for the first time.
The house gleamed, the lace tablecloth freshly pressed, the air thick with anticipation. Eleanor checked her reflection once more, smoothing her hair, her stomach fluttering. She wanted so badly for this to go well.
Then—the click of the key in the lock. She straightened. “They’re here!” But before she could step into the hall, hushed voices reached her.
“Oliver, are you serious? This is yours?” A sharp, mocking laugh. “It’s like a flipping museum.”
“Keep your voice down, Sophie. Mum will hear—”
“Oh, let her! Maybe she’ll finally realise this junk belongs in a skip!” A sharp kick—the old oak sideboard in the hallway shuddered.
Eleanor stepped forward, her face ashen, eyes blazing. “How *dare* you? This is my home, not some street market.”
Silence. Heavy, suffocating.
Sophie didn’t apologise. At dinner, she picked at her food, wrinkled her nose, muttered about the “musty old décor,” and announced they wouldn’t be living here unless the place was gutted.
Eleanor felt sick. She excused herself, stepping onto the patio, a hand pressed to her chest. For the first time in thirty years, she regretted raising Oliver alone—his father had left before he’d even turned one. She’d done everything—worked, raised him, kept the house standing.
And now, this woman wanted to tear it all down.
When Sophie announced she was pregnant, Eleanor stayed silent. She already knew—this marriage would bring no joy. Their values were worlds apart. But for the baby, for Oliver… She offered, “Stay here. The house is big enough. You can renovate a room—”
“One room? That’s *nothing!*” Sophie snapped. “We’re selling this relic—buy two flats instead.”
“I won’t let you sell what my parents spent their lives building!” Eleanor’s voice cracked.
The next day, Oliver came with paperwork. His share of the house. She signed without looking.
“Sell it. Do what you want. Just know—when you lose this house, you’re losing more than bricks. You’re losing family.”
A week later, Eleanor was gone. Quietly, in her sleep. Oliver found her photos by the window—one of her holding him as a baby, by his grandmother’s piano.
He stood in the empty room, the echo of his footsteps all that remained.
And the furniture? Sophie had already sold it.
Three years on, Oliver lived alone in his “new” flat. Sophie and the child were long gone. But in the corner stood his mother’s restored writing desk, green leather gleaming. Beside it, her photograph. And every night, silently, he begged her forgiveness.
