Margaret Thompson adored two things in life: herself—without question—and her son, Peter—with a fanatical, almost religious devotion. Peter wasn’t just her son. He was the Sun around which her carefully polished little universe revolved. From the cradle, he got the best of everything: toys other kids only glimpsed in shop windows, clothes “fit for a prince,” and all sorts of little luxuries.
Peter was signed up for every class imaginable—from ballroom dancing (“For your posture, darling!”) to karate (“So you can stand up for yourself!”). To his credit, Peter showed remarkable consistency: he never stuck with anything longer than a month. Studying was dull, practice unthinkable. Far more fun to chase pigeons in the park, draw moustaches on posters, or terrorise the neighbour’s cat, Fluffy—who once left a memorable scratch on his brand-new jeans. Margaret would just sigh. “Oh well, that’s just his personality!”
Peter grew up. Turned into a sluggish lad with perpetually sleepy eyes and hands that had never known calluses. Then came Margaret’s new sacred mission: to shield her Sun from threats—especially from “unworthy” girls. Her personal ranking of “worthiness” included: owning a flat (preferably central London), driving a car (foreign-made, no older than three years), and having well-off parents with prestige. Peter, used to Mum knowing best, obediently brushed them off. “Peter, love, her father’s just an engineer!” or “She takes the Tube, darling! Far beneath you.” No girlfriend lasted—they were all “not right.”
Until one day, at a local community centre—where Peter had wandered in hoping for free snacks—he bumped heads with Emily, sending her armful of books tumbling. On a rare generous impulse, he helped gather them. Looked into her big, grey, raincloud eyes. And… something clicked. Emily was a librarian. Lived in a modest one-bed flat on the outskirts, inherited from her gran. No car. Parents—teachers from the countryside. By Margaret’s standards: a disaster. But Emily was quiet, warm, smelled like old books and vanilla. For the first time, Peter ignored Mum. Brought her home.
Margaret greeted the girl like a general inspecting a spy. Cold tea. Interrogation disguised as questions:
“Own your flat? Oh, a one-bed… Outskirts? Parents? Teachers? How… quaint. No car, then? Shame.”
Emily flushed, twisted a napkin, answered softly and honestly. Peter ate Mum’s cake and stared out the window. Inside Margaret, a storm of outrage raged. *This plain little mouse?! For my prince?! Never!*
But Peter dug his heels in. For the first—and possibly last—time in his life. Margaret, seething, gave “her blessing.” Not because she’d accepted it. She was lying in wait. Like a spider.
The wedding was modest. Emily moved into Margaret’s flat (where else?). And then—the “adjustment period” began. What Margaret called “getting used to each other” was really just slow, deliberate torment.
“Emily dear, this soup is… bland. Not like mine. Peter *loves* my rich stew, and this is just watery slop.”
“The dust on the dresser, Emily! Peter’s allergic, you know? Must wipe it daily!” (She did. Morning and night.)
“Peter, look how Emily ironed your shirt—creased! You can’t wear this to work. Take it off; I’ll fix it.”
Emily endured. She loved Peter. Hoped he’d defend her. But Peter was used to Mum always being right. He stayed silent. Sometimes grumbled, “Try harder, Em. Mum just cares.”
Margaret’s attacks grew sneakier:
“Peter, darling, Emily bought such cheap ham today. Scrimping on *you*, is she?”
“Oh, Emily, that jumper… *so* unflattering. Peter, tell her not to wear it.” (It was new, bought with her own wages.)
Emily cried into her pillow. Peter snapped, “Stop whining! Mum means well! Adjust!”
One evening, returning from her second job (tutoring), Emily found Margaret *pouring her homemade soup down the sink*.
“Oh, Emily! So sorry! Thought it had gone off. Never mind—Peter, I’ll make you scrambled eggs! No one does them like me!”
Emily looked at Peter. He shrugged. “Mum didn’t mean to. Don’t make a fuss.”
That was the final straw. Not a scream—just a quiet, broken whisper: “Peter, I can’t do this anymore…”
“So what?” he mumbled, inspecting his nails.
A month later, they divorced. Emily left quietly, suitcase in hand, heart shattered. Margaret crowed, “See, darling? Freed you from dead weight! Now we’ll find someone *proper*!”
And Peter did. Or rather, *she* found him. Sophie—vivid as a parrot, loud, with a brazen glint in her eyes. Daughter of a chain of luxury car dealerships. Owned a flat, a car, *and* parents before whom even Margaret shrank. Sophie didn’t wait for invitations. She bulldozed into their lives in designer heels and expensive perfume.
Dinner that night was a battlefield.
Margaret (honey-sweet): “Sophie dear, the soup’s… *spicy*. Peter dislikes spice.”
Sophie (mouth full): “I *love* it! Pete, try it—fiery! Don’t like it? Don’t eat. Mummy dearest just *has* to nitpick, doesn’t she?”
Peter froze mid-sip. *Mummy dearest?!*
“Sophie, the dust on the dresser—”
“Yep, saw it! Pete, buy a robot vacuum—Dad’s got one, *brilliant*! Mummy, I’m not your maid.”
“Sophie, that shirt doesn’t suit Peter—”
“Rubbish! *I* picked it! Stylish, right Pete?” And Peter, dazzled, nodded. “Yeah. Very.”
Margaret tried the “ham tactic”: “Peter, Sophie bought *such* expensive prosciutto today—reckless!”
Sophie cut in: “*Parma* ham, Mummy. *Gourmet*. Pete, you *loved* it, yeah?” And Peter, tasting it for the first time, *did* love it. Very much.
Peter changed before Margaret’s eyes. He adored Sophie—her energy, her cheek, her confidence. He started arguing with Mum. Saying *no*. Defending Sophie. Margaret’s power crumbled like April snow.
She fought back—tears, accusations, fake illnesses. Sophie just scoffed. “Heart trouble? Call private medics! Let’s check!” or “Achy legs? Here’s a *lovely* spa retreat! Our treat!”
Years passed. After one particularly vicious row—where Margaret shrieked that Sophie was a “gold-digging hussy”—Sophie said, icy-calm:
“Margaret. You made Emily’s life hell. Now you’re doing it to me. But I’m *not* Emily. Pete—choose. Either she behaves, stays *out* of our lives, or… she lives elsewhere. I won’t tolerate this war in *my* home.”
Peter looked at his mother—her face twisted with spite. Then at Sophie—bold, bright, *his*. Said quietly, firmly:
“Mum. You’re stressed. You need rest. *Professional* care.”
So Margaret ended up at “Willow Grove,” a private but still *care home*. It was settled fast. A “doctor” (actually a psychiatrist) noted “early dementia signs.” The place was clean, polite. But it wasn’t *her* flat. Not *her* kingdom. Peter and Sophie visited rarely—bearing overpriced fruit (too tough for Margaret’s teeth) and tales of their travels.
She sat by the window in her tiny room. Outside—manicured but foreign gardens. No Peter’s laughter—just the quiet cough of a neighbour down the hall. No control—just helplessness. And in her throat, a lump. Not from humiliation by Sophie. From something else.
Tears dripped down her wrinkled cheeks. She thought of Emily. Her soft footsteps in the kitchen. The smell of her simple, earnest cooking. How Emily, wordlessly, re-ironed Peter’s shirts after Margaret’s jabs. Brought her chamomile tea when she “felt poorly.” How she *endured, endured, endured*…
“Emily…” Margaret whispered to the empty air. “Silly girl… Too soft… Too *kind*…”
She clenched her fists. The armchair’s upholstery felt cold, coarse.
“…Silly,” she repeated, voice cracking. “…But *you*… You’d never… have sent me *here*…”
The bitter truth stabbed like a knife. She’d wrung Emily out like a rag, making room for “better.” And got Sophie—who *tolerated* no rags. Not even an old, once-powerful mother.
Outside, night fell. A dim nightlight flickered on. Margaret didn’t moveAnd as the silence of the home settled around her, Margaret finally understood—love had never been about control, but kindness, and she had thrown away the only person who might have shown her any.
