Veronica could never fathom why her husband, Alexander, allowed his own mother to intrude so brazenly into their lives. She knew well the sorrows of his childhood—how he had suffered neglect, how he shivered through winters in hand-me-downs while his elder brother, Edward, basked in their mother’s affection. Why, now a grown man, a man of his own home and means, did he let Margaret Williamson waltz in—not as a guest, but as though she owned the place—claiming the very room he had once dreamed of filling with laughter, with a child of their own?
*”She is still my mother,”* Alexander murmured, as if justifying himself not just to Veronica but to the quiet guilt within. *”We’ll bear it a little longer. There’s no child yet, after all.”*
He smoothed things over, though his every instinct rebelled. For the first time, he had begun to live as he’d always longed—a house of his own, a wife he cherished, nights unhaunted by the old ache of being unwanted. And now—his mother. Lugging her bags, her grievances, her endless insistence on what she was *owed*.
*”You said this room was meant for a nursery!”* Veronica burst out. *”Now your mother rules it like it’s hers. No discussion, no courtesy.”*
Alexander said nothing. He had bought this house for its two rooms—a bedroom, a nursery—because he dreamed of family. Now that dream was pushed aside once more, just as it had been in his boyhood.
History had circled back.
He remembered their cramped flat in Birmingham, how Edward received all the finest things—new coats, birthday cakes, promises kept. And he, Alexander, heard only tales of thrift, of *”we can’t afford it,”* of joy being a luxury. His mother scraped together shillings for Edward’s jackets while he trudged to school in secondhand shoes. He had always been the *afterthought*.
Now here she was again. Claiming it was just for a few days, yet already her clothes hung in the wardrobe, already she critiqued Veronica’s cooking, her cleaning, the very way she dressed. And again—just like before—she gnawed at him with that old guilt: *not enough, never enough*.
Veronica held her tongue as long as she could. But the weeks wore on, and her patience frayed. She told Alexander how Margaret moved her belongings, tossed out fresh food for greasy roasts, even scoffed at the mineral water she drank. *”It’s deliberate. She does it to spite me,”* Veronica seethed, fists clenched.
Alexander tried to speak to his mother. Her retort was swift: *”Would you cast me from a house I blessed with my prayers? I’ve left a flat for Edward, but you and your upstart wife would shut me out? Ungrateful!”*
He waved it off. He didn’t want the flat. But when Veronica—voice trembling—showed him the papers hidden in Margaret’s things, his breath stalled. Everything was signed to Edward: the flat, the garage, even the patch of land where he’d once planted potatoes as a boy. Every promise she’d ever made him had been empty.
*”And she spun me pretty lies, said she lived for my sake.”* Alexander sank into his chair, hollow.
He didn’t weep. But his silence spoke louder than tears.
The next morning, he left for work without a word. By evening, when he returned, Margaret was gone. Her suitcases stood by the gate, and Veronica’s eyes burned with defiance. *”I sent her away, Alex. Forgive me if I should have waited, but I couldn’t bear it any longer.”*
*”Because of the papers?”* he asked wearily.
*”No.”* Veronica swallowed. *”When I told her I knew the truth, she called me nothing. Said you were her son, and I was just a hanger-on. That this house was yours—so it was hers. That you’d leave me once she ‘opened your eyes.’”*
Alexander was quiet a long moment. Then, for the first time in his life, he called his mother a *viper*—and felt no remorse for the word.
*”And before she left,”* Veronica added softly, *”she cursed us. You, me, our future child. Said we’d lose everything.”*
Alexander only nodded. It was all too familiar. Too predictable.
Months passed. The house grew peaceful again. Veronica carried their child beneath her heart. Alexander never rang his mother, nor Edward. He erased them. He would no longer be *convenient*.
Then, one afternoon, pushing their newborn in a pram, Veronica ran into an old neighbour from their Birmingham days. The woman hesitated before confessing: Margaret had left Edward’s care. Or rather, he’d *”settled her.”* A nursing home. They’d quarrelled for months before he packed her off, declaring he’d no room for a demanding mother in his life.
Veronica’s chest tightened.
*”He mustn’t know,”* she whispered to herself. *”Mustn’t.”*
And when she returned home, she said nothing. Not of the nursing home, nor of the neighbours who’d heard Margaret begging for her son’s number. Nothing.
Because her Alexander deserved peace. A simple, quiet happiness. And if that meant turning a blind eye to another’s lonely age—so be it. Love wasn’t just warmth. It was boundaries, too.
So they live. In a house where the nursery waits for small voices, where the bedroom is free of lies, where Margaret no longer dictates and Veronica no longer bites back fury.
They live. As a family ought. Truly.
