Antonia Whitmore loved two things in this life: herself—unconditionally—and her son Peter—with fanatical, almost religious devotion. Peter wasn’t just her son. He was the Sun, around which her small, meticulously polished universe revolved. From the cradle, he was given nothing but the best: toys the neighbour’s children could only ogle in shop windows, clothes “fit for a prince,” and every delicacy imaginable.
Peter was enrolled in every conceivable class and club: ballroom dancing (“For posture, Petey!”) to karate (“So you can stand your ground!”). To his credit, Peter displayed remarkable consistency—he never stuck with anything longer than a month. School was dull, effort unthinkable. It was far more fun to chase pigeons in the square, doodle moustaches on posters, and terrorise the family cat, Whiskers, who once left indelible scratches on his brand-new jeans. Antonia merely sighed and said, “What can you do? That’s just his spirit!”
Peter grew up. He towered into a lanky, sluggish figure with perpetually sleepy eyes and hands that had never known a callus. Then came Antonia’s new sacred mission: to shield her Sun from undeserving intruders—women, especially the “wrong sort.” Her personal grading system for “worth” included: a flat (preferably central, not shared), a car (foreign, no older than three years), and parents (prosperous, well-connected). Peter, accustomed to his mother’s wisdom, dutifully dismissed them all. “Oh, Pete, her father’s just an engineer!” or “Imagine, she takes the Tube! Far beneath you.” No girl lasted. None were “right.”
Until one evening at the community centre, where Peter had wandered in search of free entertainment (and maybe snacks), he collided with Eleanor. Eleanor carried a stack of books, which toppled. Peter, seized by rare chivalry, helped gather them. He looked into her large, grey eyes, like a rain-drenched sky. And something clicked.
Eleanor worked as a librarian. She lived in a modest one-bed flat on the outskirts, inherited from her grandmother. She had no car. Her parents were schoolteachers from a provincial town. By Antonia’s standards—a disaster. But Eleanor was soft-spoken, gentle, smelled of old paper and vanilla. For once, Peter disobeyed. He brought her home.
Antonia greeted her future daughter-in-law like a general facing a spy. She scrutinised Eleanor from head to toe. Iced tea was served. Questions were fired like bullets:
“You own property? Ah, a one-bed… On the edge of town… Parents? Teachers? Fascinating… Can you drive? No? Shame.”
Eleanor blushed, twisted her napkin, answered quietly and honestly. Peter ate his mother’s cake and stared out the window. Inside Antonia, a storm of outrage raged. *This plain little mouse for my prince? Never!*
But Peter dug in his heels. For the first—and possibly only—time in his life. Antonia, swallowing her fury, gave her blessing. Not because she relented. She waited, like a spider.
The wedding was modest. Eleanor moved into Antonia’s flat (where else?), and the games began. What the mother-in-law called “adjusting” was, in truth, a systematic dismantling.
“Ellie, the soup today is… bland. Not like mine. Peter adores a rich stew, and this is just water.”
“Oh, the dust on the sideboard! Peter’s allergic, you know? Must wipe it daily!” (Eleanor wiped it twice.)
“Peter, look how Ellie ironed your shirt! Wrinkled! You can’t wear that to work. Take it off—I’ll fix it.”
Eleanor endured. She loved Peter. She hoped he’d defend her. But Peter was used to his mother always being right. He stayed silent, occasionally grumbling, “Just try harder, Ellie. Mum means well.”
Antonia escalated.
“Peter, Ellie bought such cheap meat today! Skimping on you?”
“Oh, Ellie, that jumper… like a sack. Doesn’t suit you. Peter, tell her not to wear it.” (The jumper was new, bought with her own wages.)
Eleanor wept into her pillow. Peter snapped, “Stop whinging! Mum just wants what’s best! Get used to it!”
Then, one evening, returning from her tutoring job, Eleanor found Antonia pouring her homemade soup down the sink.
“Oh, Ellie! Sorry! I thought it had spoiled. No matter—Peter, I’ll make you eggs. Nothing beats my eggs!”
Eleanor looked at Peter. He shrugged. “Mum didn’t mean it. Don’t cry.”
That was the final straw. Not a scream, but a quiet sob escaped Eleanor. “Peter, I can’t do this anymore…”
“So what?” he replied blandly, inspecting his nails.
A month later, they divorced. Eleanor left silently, suitcase in hand, heart shattered. Antonia rejoiced: “There, my boy, we’ve shed the dead weight! Now we’ll find you someone proper!”
And Peter did. Or rather, Sophia found him. Vibrant as a macaw, loud, with a brazen glint in her eye. Daughter of a luxury car dealership owner. A flat, a car, parents who made even Antonia shrink. Sophia didn’t wait for invitations. She stormed into their lives on stilettos, trailing expensive perfume.
Their first dinner was a battle.
Antonia (sweetly): “Sophie, the soup is… too spicy. Peter dislikes spice.”
Sophia (mouth full): “I love it! Pete, try it—it’s fire! If you hate it, don’t eat it. Mummy dearest, must you criticise everything?”
Peter froze, spoon mid-air. *Mummy dearest?*
“Sophie, the dust on the sideboard—”
“Seen it! Pete, buy a robot vacuum—Dad’s got one, brilliant! Mummy, I’m not your maid!”
“Sophia, that shirt doesn’t suit Peter—”
“Rubbish! I picked it! Stylish, right, Pete?” And Pete, gazing into Sophia’s fiery eyes, nodded. “Yeah, Soph, very stylish.”
Antonia tried the “meat tactic”: “Peter, Sophia bought such pricey ham today… reckless spending!”
Sophia cut in: “It’s Parma ham, Mummy! A delicacy! Pete, you loved it, right?” And Pete, tasting Parma ham for the first time, loved it. Very much.
Peter changed before her eyes. He fell for Sophia—her energy, her nerve, her confidence. He argued with his mother. Said “no.” Defended his wife. Antonia’s power melted like April snow.
She fought desperately. Wept, accused Sophia of ingratitude, faked illnesses. Sophia only scoffed. “Heart trouble? Call private medics! Let’s check!” Or, “Aching legs? Here’s a spa brochure! We’ll pay!”
Years passed. After one particularly explosive row—where Antonia shrieked “gold-digger!”—Sophia delivered an ultimatum in a voice like frozen steel.
“Antonia, you made Ellie’s life hell. Now you torment me. But I’m not Ellie. I won’t tolerate it. Pete, choose. Either she behaves, stays out of our lives… or she lives elsewhere. I won’t endure this war in my home.”
Peter looked at his mother—her face twisted with spite. At Sophia—bold, brilliant, *his*. Then, quiet but firm:
“Mum, you’re too stressed. You need peace. Professional care.”
So Antonia ended up at “Haven Manor,” a genteel but undeniable nursing home. It was arranged swiftly. A psychiatrist, introduced as a GP, diagnosed early dementia. The place was clean, the staff polite. But it wasn’t her flat. Her domain. Peter and Sophia visited rarely, bearing luxury fruits she could barely chew, regaling her with travel tales.
She sat by the window in her small room. Beyond it—a manicured, alien garden. No Peter’s laughter, just the neighbour’s hacking cough. No control—just helplessness. And in her throat, a lump. Not from humiliation. From something else.
Tears streaked her wrinkled cheeks. She remembered Eleanor. Her quiet steps in the kitchen. The scent of her simple, earnest cooking. How Eleanor, wordless, re-ironed Peter’s shirt after her jabs. How she brought chamomile tea when Antonia feigned illness. How she endured. And endured.
“Ellie…” Antonia whispered to the emptiness. “Foolish girl… So quiet… So meek…”
Her fists clenched on her lap. The chair’s upholstery felt cold, unwelcoming.
“…Foolish…” she repeated, voice breaking. “…But you… You’d never… have sent me here… Never.”
The bitter truth, sharp as a blade, pierced her. She’d wrung Eleanor dry, making space for someone “worthy.” And got Sophia—who tolerated no rags. Not even a once-mighty mother.
Outside, duskShe closed her eyes, the weight of her choices settling like stone, and for the first time, Antonia Whitmore understood true loneliness.
