The Bitter Taste of Truth: A Quiet Drama in Manchester
In a cosy kitchen on the outskirts of Manchester, silence hung heavy, broken only by the clink of a teaspoon. Eleanor sat at the table, scrolling through her phone while sipping fragrant tea. Her husband, Oliver, emerged from the bathroom humming quietly, his face lit with a strange joy, as if he knew a secret no one else did.
“Why are you so cheery?” Eleanor squinted, glancing up from her screen.
“Just in a good mood,” Oliver deflected, pouring himself tea. He sat across from her, smiling faintly. “Ellie, when did you last check your email?”
“Ages ago,” she frowned. “Why?”
“Have a look. There’s a surprise waiting,” he said cryptically, taking a sip.
Unease prickling her skin, Eleanor grabbed her phone. One unread email glowed on the screen. She opened it, skimmed the words, and froze. The mug trembled in her hand, tea spilling onto the table.
—
Eleanor and Oliver had been together eight years. Their story began like many others: romance, moving in, then a modest wedding. They’d relocated to Manchester for a fresh start, renting a flat while saving for their own place, sharing joys and hardships.
“You’re rubbish with money,” Oliver declared one day. “Transfer your salary to me. I’ll handle the finances.”
Eleanor didn’t argue. She trusted him completely. From then on, he managed everything. Thanks to his thriftiness, they secured a mortgage and later bought a countryside cottage. Life wasn’t lavish, but stable. Oliver gave her spending money, and Eleanor knew he’d never waste a penny on himself.
She didn’t notice the shift at first. One evening, Oliver came home early, his expression grim.
“Ellie, Mum’s moving in with us,” he said. “It’s too hard for her alone. Maybe the cottage? It’s sturdy, shops nearby.”
“Of course,” Eleanor agreed. She got on well enough with her mother-in-law, Margaret, and avoided family rows.
A week later, Margaret settled into the cottage. Eleanor, swamped with work, only visited weeks after. What she saw shocked her.
“Margaret, what’s all this?” she gasped, tripping over boxes by the door.
“Hello, love,” Margaret replied flatly. “Nothing much. Oliver said you’re giving me the cottage, so I packed your things.”
“Giving it?” Eleanor’s temples pulsed. “Since when?”
“He didn’t tell you?” Margaret smiled. “I gave my flat to Oliver’s younger brother. Nowhere else to go.”
“Gave it?!” Eleanor choked on outrage.
Oliver’s brother, Thomas, was married, but Eleanor hadn’t known he lacked a home. Gossip swirled about him, but she’d ignored it.
“Just did,” Margaret shrugged. “They’ve kids. Can’t leave them on the street.”
Eleanor stayed silent. Returning home with a boot full of belongings, she confronted Oliver.
“Did you even think? How could you give Mum the cottage?”
“What’s your problem?” he snapped. “She’s my mother. My decision.”
“And me? Do I get a say?” Eleanor shouted.
“Oh, suddenly so independent!” he scoffed. “When it’s saving money, it’s my fault, but decisions are yours?”
They didn’t speak for a week. Cooling off, Eleanor tried reasoning.
“I just want to be included,” she said softly. “The cottage matters to me. I don’t want to lose it.”
Oliver scowled but stayed silent.
“When your family needs help, we jump,” he muttered. “But mine gets nothing?”
The argument reignited. Eleanor began visiting the cottage daily, hoping to force Margaret out.
“Never thought I’d become this,” she confided in her friend Lydia. “The wicked daughter-in-law tormenting a poor old woman.”
“Fight for what’s yours,” Lydia urged. “Or they’ll take everything.”
Bolstered, Eleanor returned. Margaret bustled about—yard tidy, new flowers blooming. It looked homier. But Eleanor shoved the thought away.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Who said you could touch my property?”
“Ellie, what’s wrong?” Margaret faltered. “Oliver said—”
“I don’t care what Oliver said!” Eleanor cut in. “He doesn’t own it alone! Understood?”
She saw fear in Margaret’s eyes but couldn’t stop. The power thrilled her.
“Everything goes through me! Not him!”
“Alright, love,” Margaret mumbled. “I’ll ask next time. Oliver just—”
“I don’t care! And get rid of these flowers! They’re hideous!”
“I paid for them…”
“Not my problem!”
Eleanor visited daily. She said nothing to Oliver; Margaret didn’t dare complain.
“They’ve their own lives,” Margaret wept when Eleanor left. “I won’t trouble them.”
She hadn’t asked for the cottage. Thomas and his wife had indeed taken her flat. Crowded, arguments constant. Margaret cried at night but stayed quiet—until Thomas called Oliver.
“Mum’s got nowhere,” he said. Oliver couldn’t refuse.
“You raised us,” he told Margaret. “No arguments. Give them the flat. Ellie won’t mind.”
How wrong he was. He never imagined his wife’s ruthlessness.
“Why so late?” Oliver asked one evening.
“Not work,” Eleanor tossed back. “Visiting your mother.”
She now saw Margaret as an enemy to evict.
“Why? Bringing groceries?” Oliver smiled, misreading. “She asked for money earlier. I forgot. Then she refused.”
He hugged her. “Thanks for understanding.”
“Understanding?” Eleanor shoved him off. “I was checking how she’s ruining our property!”
Oliver’s face darkened.
“Checking? She’s an adult!”
“Adult? She dug up the garden! Fed birds—filthy creatures!”
“You shouted at my mother?” Oliver roared. “How dare you? I’ve never insulted yours!”
“Your mother lives on our property!”
“And yours doesn’t live in our flat!” he shot back. “You never cared for the cottage till Mum moved in! You only care about yourself!”
Oliver stormed out, driving to his mother. Seeing her tears, he clenched his fists.
“Son, I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This was a mistake.”
“Don’t worry, Mum,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”
A month later, Oliver moved her to a small house.
“It’s yours,” he said. “No one will harass you.”
Margaret, wiping tears, thanked him. Oliver seemed calmer at home.
“Mum’s gone,” he told Eleanor. “Visit the cottage whenever.”
Eleanor rejoiced, boasting to Lydia.
“Told you,” Lydia smirked. “Push back, or they’ll walk all over you.”
Life settled—until Eleanor spotted an ad for cheap land near the cottage. They’d once discussed buying it. She called the seller, but Oliver was showering. Grabbing his phone, she checked their savings.
“Where’s the money?” she screamed, seeing just two thousand pounds. “We saved so much!”
“Who said you could touch my phone?” Oliver snatched it back. “Check your email instead.”
Eleanor opened the message and froze. A divorce notice.
“What? How?” she whispered, the ground tilting.
“That’s it,” Oliver said coldly. “I filed. The flat’s yours—I bought Mum’s house with our savings. The cottage is mine. It’s fair.”
“Divorce? Why? Found someone? Or your mother’s idea?”
“Leave Mum out,” he snapped. “She’s got class. Unlike you. You tormented her when she had nowhere to go. I won’t live with that.”
That night, Oliver packed and left. Eleanor sat alone, cold tea beside her, bitterness thick in her throat.
