Margaret 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 got the very best—toys the neighbor’s children only glimpsed in shop windows, clothes “fit for a prince,” and all sorts of delicacies.
Peter was dragged to every hobby and club imaginable: ballroom dancing (“For posture, Petey!”) to karate (“So you can stand your ground!”). To his credit, Peter displayed remarkable consistency—nowhere did he last more than a month. Studying bored him, practice was unthinkable. Far more fun to chase pigeons, doodle mustaches on posters, or terrorize the family tabby, Mittens, who once left a lasting scratch on his brand-new jeans. Margaret would sigh, “What can you do? That’s just his character!”
Peter grew up—tall, lumbering, with perpetually sleepy eyes and hands untouched by hard work. Then came Margaret’s new sacred mission: shielding her Sun from threats. From women. Especially the “unworthy” ones. Her personal ranking of worthiness included: a flat (ideally central London), a car (foreign, no older than three years), and parents (wealthy, well-connected). Peter, accustomed to his mother’s wisdom, dutifully turned them away. “Come now, Pete, her father’s just an engineer!” or “Can you imagine? She takes the Tube! Far beneath you.” No steady girlfriend. None ever measured up.
Until one day at the community centre, where Peter wandered in hoping for free snacks, he collided with Emily. A stack of books tumbled from her arms. On a rare impulse, he helped pick them up. He looked into her large, grey eyes like rain-heavy clouds—and something clicked. Emily worked in a library. Lived in a modest one-bed flat on the outskirts, inherited from her gran. No car. Parents—schoolteachers from the countryside. By Margaret’s standards, a catastrophe. But Emily was gentle, smiling, smelled of old paper and vanilla. For the first time, Peter disobeyed his mother. Brought her home.
Margaret greeted her like a general inspecting a spy. Head-to-toe scrutiny. Lukewarm tea. Questions like an interrogation:
“Own your flat? Hm, one-bed… Outskirts… Parents? Teachers? How… quaint. Drive?”
Emily flushed, fidgeted with a napkin, answered softly and honestly. Peter munched his mum’s cake, staring out the window. Margaret seethed. “This plain little mouse? For *my* prince? Never!”
But Peter dug in his heels—first time ever. So Margaret “allowed” it. Not acceptance. She coiled, patient as a spider.
The wedding was small. Emily moved into Margaret’s flat (where else?). Then the “adjustment period” began—what some might call systematic torment.
“Emily dear, this soup’s… bland. Not like mine. Peter adores my hearty stew, this is just dishwater.”
“Goodness, dust on the sideboard! Peter’s *allergic*, didn’t you know? Must wipe it *daily*!” (Emily wiped it morning and night.)
“Peter, look how Emily ironed your shirt! Wrinkles! You can’t wear this to work. Take it off, *I’ll* fix it.”
Emily endured. Loved Peter. Hoped he’d defend her. But Peter believed Mum knew best. He stayed silent. Sometimes grumbled, “Just try harder, Em. She means well.”
Margaret escalated.
“Peter, Emily bought *value* sausages today. Penny-pinching, is she?”
“Oh, Emily, that jumper… dreadful. Doesn’t suit you. Peter, tell her not to wear it.” (It was new, bought with Emily’s wages.)
Emily cried into her pillow. Peter snapped, “Stop whining! Mum’s just helping!”
One evening, returning from work (Emily tutored nights), she found Margaret pouring her homemade soup down the sink.
“Oh, Emily! So sorry! Thought it had gone off. Never mind—I’ll fry Peter eggs! Nothing beats *my* eggs!”
Emily looked at Peter. He shrugged. “Mum didn’t mean to. Don’t fuss.”
The last straw. Not a sob—a quiet gasp. “Peter… I can’t do this anymore.”
“So what?” he said, examining a nail.
A month later, they divorced. Emily left quietly, a single suitcase and a broken heart. Margaret rejoiced: “There, son! Dead weight gone! Now we’ll find you a *proper* girl!”
And Peter did. Or rather, *she* found him. Victoria—bright as a macaw, loud, with a glint of audacity. Daughter of a chain of luxury car dealership owners. Flat, car, parents who made even Margaret shrink. Victoria didn’t wait for invites. She stormed into their lives in designer heels and expensive perfume.
Dinner became a battleground.
Margaret (sweetly): “Victoria dear, the soup’s… spicy. Peter hates spice.”
Victoria (mouth full): “*I* love it! Pete, try it—brilliant! If you don’t like it, don’t eat it. Mum, must you nitpick?”
Peter froze. *Mum?!*
“Victoria, dust on the—”
“*Seen* it! Pete, buy a robot vacuum! Dad’s got one—top-notch! Mum, I’m not your maid!”
“Victoria, that shirt doesn’t—”
“Rubbish! *I* chose it. Stylish! Right, Pete?” And Pete, dazzled, nodded: “Yeah, Vicky. Stylish.”
Margaret tried the “sausage tactic.” “Peter, Victoria bought *posh* ham today. So wasteful!”
Victoria cut in: “*Parma* ham, Mum! Delicacy! Pete, loved it?” And Pete, tasting it for the first time, did. Very much.
Peter changed. He adored Victoria—her energy, her nerve, her confidence. He argued with Margaret. Said “no.” Defended his wife. Margaret’s power melted like April snow.
She fought desperately. Wept, blamed Victoria for ingratitude, faked illnesses. Victoria scoffed. “Heart trouble? Call *private* medics! Let them check!” Or, “Aches? Here’s a *luxury* spa! Our treat!”
Years passed. After one blazing row—where Margaret shrieked “gold-digger!”—Victoria said coldly:
“Margaret. You broke poor Emily. Now you’re breaking me. But I’m *not* Emily. Peter—choose. She stays quiet, out of our lives. Or she *leaves*. I won’t tolerate this war.”
Peter looked at his mother—her face twisted with spite—then at Victoria. Vibrant, bold, *his*. Soft but firm:
“Mum… you need peace. Proper care.”
So Margaret ended up at “Silver Haven”—private, but still a care home. Quick work. A psychiatrist, brought under pretence, diagnosed “early decline.” The place was spotless, staff polite. But not *her* flat. Not *her* kingdom. Peter and Victoria visited rarely, bearing fancy fruits she could barely chew, gushing about holidays.
She sat by the window. A tidy, alien garden outside. No Peter’s laughter—just a neighbour’s cough. No control—just helplessness. A lump in her throat. Not from humiliation. From *something else*.
Tears streaked her wrinkled cheeks. She remembered Emily. Soft steps in the kitchen. The smell of her simple, earnest cooking. How Emily re-ironed Peter’s shirts without a word. Brought her chamomile tea when she pretended to be ill. Endured, endured, endured…
“Emily…” she whispered into the emptiness. “Silly girl… Too soft… Too kind…”
Her fists clenched. The armchair’s upholstery felt cold.
“…Silly,” she repeated, voice cracking. “…But *you*… you’d never… have sent me here. Never.”
The bitterness cut deep. She’d wrung Emily dry—making room for “better.” And got Victoria. Who tolerates no weak links. Not even a once-mighty mother.
Outside, dusk fell. A nightlight flickered on. Margaret didn’t move. Staring at her tear-streaked reflection in the dark glass, she regretted—*truly* regretted—for the first time.
Too late, Margaret. Karma isn’t a boomerang. It’s a red Jaguar—knocking you down, speeding off, leaving you stranded on the roadside of your own making.
