**A Cottage Instead of a Family**
Marina never imagined a day that began as a celebration would become the point of no return. She and Anthony arrived at his mother’s anniversary party—Margaret Whittaker—who was practically glowing, surrounded by flowers, congratulations, and adoration. Every detail of the banquet had been orchestrated down to the last eyelash flutter, all for her grand moment.
“And now, a word from her son, Anthony!” the host announced cheerfully.
Marina, like all the guests, turned toward the stage. Her husband stood, adjusted the microphone, and smiled. “Mum, thank you for everything. And for your special day, I’ve got a gift,” he said with a mysterious grin.
What happened next left Marina frozen. Anthony handed his mother… the deed to a cottage. Not a card, not a token gesture—a full cottage, complete with a house, garden, fence, and even a little patio. The room erupted in applause, his mother wept with joy. But Marina sat at the table, gripping the chair arms, pale as the tablecloth.
*How could you, Tony?*
She couldn’t believe it. That very morning, before the wretched party, she’d discovered their joint savings—two years of scrimping for a new flat—had vanished. Every penny. Anthony had dodged her questions, brushed her off. Now, she understood. He’d spent it all—on *his* gift. Without asking. Without discussion. Just handed it away.
That money wasn’t his alone. It was their dreams. Their daughter, Ellie, was starting school soon, and Marina had wanted her to have her own room, her own childhood. She’d worked nights, picked up extra shifts, saved bonuses—all for nothing. Now it was gone, turned into his mother’s fantasy retreat with herb beds.
*The celebration was hers. The shame was mine.*
Anthony was the son of the hour. “What a devoted lad!” guests whispered. “Not like men these days,” the old ladies sniffled. Marina watched him stand there, chest puffed with pride, and knew—there was no place for her in that family. Not after this.
When she stood and walked out, no one noticed. Or pretended not to.
She trudged home through the muggy evening, numb. The flat was empty. Ellie was staying with her mum—thank God. She couldn’t have cried in front of her. But now—now she could.
She pulled a bottle of sparkling wine from the fridge, flicked on the light, and for the first time in ages, truly wept. Not quietly. Not proudly. Not from hurt—from sheer emptiness.
*The argument was short.*
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Anthony barked the moment he walked in.
“*Me?* You’re the one who stole our money. Made a spectacle. Bought your mother a *cottage* instead of a home for your family. You decided alone—now live with it alone.”
“Marina, don’t be dramatic. We’ll save again. It’s not like I bought it for some stranger—it’s *Mum!* We’ll all go there, have barbecues with Ellie—”
“You go. Without us. I’m filing for divorce. And suing you. Half that money was mine. I want it back.”
He left. Didn’t pack. Just slammed the door. An hour later, Margaret called:
“Who do you think you are? A single mum with a kid in a one-bed? You really think men will line up for that?”
Marina wiped her tears, smirked. “Ask yourself who’ll want *your* son now. A mummy’s boy with no spine, no savings, no backbone. Ellie and I will manage. The flat’s just the start. We’ll build our own life. Without cottages. And without *you*.”
*Justice won.*
The divorce was swift. The court ordered Anthony to repay her half—thankfully, the withdrawal was documented. He didn’t fight for the flat—the scandal was too loud, and maybe, just maybe, guilt gnawed at him.
With her parents’ help, Marina found a three-bed place. Soon, she and Ellie would move—into a new life, one without betrayal, humiliation, or lies.
Now, Anthony visits once a month, shuffling at the doorstep, mumbling apologies, saying he “understands now.” But there’s no going back. Marina learned the hard way: a man who puts his mother above his family isn’t a man at all.
The greatest gift she got from that cursed anniversary? Freedom. And the certainty that her daughter will grow up in a home where love isn’t bought, where a mother isn’t the centre of the universe—just dearly loved. And where no one ever spends shared dreams on someone else’s cottage.
