**”You’re Not My Real Mum, That’s All”**
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” shouted Eleanor, waving her arms wildly. “She’s *my* daughter, not yours!”
“I was only trying to help,” replied Tabitha quietly, clutching a frying pan by the stove. “Emily’s ill, she’s got a fever…”
“Oh, *helping*,” Eleanor mocked. “Trying to play the perfect stepmum, are we? So Daddy thinks you’re just *brilliant*?”
“El, stop,” Victor tried to interject, but his daughter didn’t even glance his way.
“And *you* stay out of it! You always take her side!” She jabbed a finger at Tabitha. “She’s not my mother—she never will be! You threw me away for—for *her*!”
Eleanor stormed out, slamming her bedroom door so hard the china rattled in the cabinet.
Tabitha set the pan down and sank into a chair, hands trembling, eyes stinging.
“Don’t mind her,” Victor said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “She’s upset about uni. Didn’t get into her first choice, so now the whole world’s to blame.”
“Vic, she’s right,” Tabitha whispered. “I’m not her mother. I never will be.”
“Don’t talk nonsense. Things’ll settle.”
Tabitha gave a bitter smile. *Settle.* They’d been married four years, and things with Eleanor had only gotten worse. First it was icy silence, then snide remarks. Now? Open warfare.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have offered to pay her tuition,” Tabitha murmured.
“Why not? You meant well.”
“She took it as a bribe.”
Victor sighed and sat beside her. “Love, I know it’s hard. But Ellie lost her mum at fourteen. She’s terrified someone’s trying to replace her.”
“I’m *not* trying to replace her. I just want peace.”
“I know. And she’ll come round. Eventually.”
Tabitha nodded, though she doubted it. Every day was a battle—Eleanor *hunted* for reasons to clash. The pasta was overcooked. The laundry was folded wrong. Even her *phone voice* was “too loud.”
Now, blaring music shook the walls. The neighbours had complained twice, but Eleanor didn’t care.
“Tell her to turn it down,” Tabitha said.
*”You* tell her. You two need to talk.”
“After what just happened?”
“Especially then. Letting things fester helps no one.”
Reluctantly, Tabitha knocked on Eleanor’s door.
“Ellie? Can I come in?”
The music *thumped* louder. She knocked harder.
“Eleanor, please. We need to talk.”
The door flew open. Eleanor stood there, eyes red-rimmed.
“What do *you* want?”
“Turn the music down. The neighbours—”
“Oh, *shove* the neighbours!”
“Ellie, I know you’re upset—”
“You don’t know *anything*!” Eleanor exploded. “Think throwing money at me’ll make me *like* you? Dream on!”
“I don’t expect you to *like* me. I just want us to stop fighting.”
“Then *leave.* This is *our* house—mine and Dad’s. *You’re* the intruder.”
The words stung. Tabitha kept her voice steady.
“Your father loves me. And I love him. We’re family now.”
“No, *we’re* family!” Eleanor jabbed a finger at her chest. “You? You’re just some gold-digger who latched onto a widower with a three-bed in *Chelsea*!”
Tabitha paled. “Who told you that?”
“Gran. Mum’s mum. She says you’re after Dad’s money, that you *targeted* him.”
“That’s a lie—”
“Is it?” Eleanor sneered. “*Were* you living in a shared flat at forty? Did you *leap* at a bloke with his own place?”
Each word was a slap. Tabitha’s cheeks burned.
“I love your father—”
“Oh, *please*. You love his *paycheck*. You tolerate *him*!”
“That’s *enough*!” Tabitha snapped. “You don’t get to speak to me like that!”
“I *do!* This is *my* home! *You’re* nobody here!”
The door slammed in her face. The music *cranked* louder.
Tabitha stood in the hall, shaking. Eleanor had hit a nerve. Yes, she’d been forty, yes, she’d lived in a cramped flat-share. But she’d married for love—*not* a mortgage.
Victor found her in the bathroom, splashing water on her face.
“What happened? Ellie’s screeching like a banshee.”
“She said I married you for the flat.”
His brow darkened. “Where’d she get *that* idea?”
“Your former mother-in-law. Apparently, *Margaret’s* been feeding her this rot.”
Victor’s jaw tightened. “Maggie never liked me. After I married you? Went full *Medusa*.”
“Vic… maybe I *should* leave.” Tabitha’s voice wavered. “Look what I’m doing to Ellie. I won’t wreck your relationship.”
“You’re *not* leaving,” he said firmly. “You’re my *wife*. If others can’t accept that? *Their* problem.”
“But Eleanor—”
“—needs to learn the world doesn’t revolve around her,” he said. “People have a right to be happy.”
Tabitha leaned into him. In his arms, she felt safe—but alone with Eleanor? War resumed.
Next morning, Eleanor skipped breakfast. Later, she *slammed* out for uni. Tabitha exhaled—a few hours of peace.
She tidied, cooked, then settled at her sewing machine. Freelance alterations paid modestly but steadily.
The doorbell rang. A stern-faced older woman stood there.
“Margaret?” Tabitha blinked.
“Yes. May I come in?”
“Of course.”
Margaret swept in, sat without invitation.
“Tea?” Tabitha offered.
“No. I’m not here for pleasantries.”
“Why *are* you here?”
Margaret scanned the room. “You’ve landed nicely. From a flatshare to *Chelsea*.”
Tabitha’s cheeks flamed. “If you’ve come to insult me—”
“To make a *deal*.” She pulled an envelope from her handbag.
“£5,000. Yours. If you divorce Victor and disappear.”
Tabitha nearly laughed. “You’re *mad*.”
“Hardly. You’re wrecking this family. Ellie’s miserable, Victor’s changed. Before you? He *doted* on her. Now? He barely *sees* her.”
“Victor *loves* me—”
“He’s *blinded*. It’ll pass. But while you’re here, my granddaughter suffers. Have you *no* pity?”
Tabitha stared at the envelope, nauseated. So *this* was what they all thought of her.
“Keep your money.”
“Think *carefully*. £5,000 buys a studio. Independence.”
“I’m not for *sale*.”
“Everyone’s for sale. Only the price varies. £7,000?”
“*Leave*,” Tabitha hissed.
“£10,000. Final offer.”
Tabitha wrenched the door open. “*Now*.”
Margaret stood, smirking. “You’ll regret this. Ellie will *never* accept you.”
“We’ll see.”
“Suit yourself. But if you change your mind—”
“—I’ll know where to *post* the divorce papers.”
The envelope stayed on the table. Tabitha stared, then *chucked* it in the bin.
That evening, she told Victor.
“She offered you *money*?” he snarled.
“£10,000 to divorce you.”
Victor went *white*. “I’ll *skin* her alive—”
“No. That’ll make it worse.”
“I won’t let her *humiliate* you!”
“What *can* you do? Ban her from seeing Ellie?”
Silence. They both knew *that* would backfire.
Eleanor came home late, ignored them both. Next day? Same. And the next. Then—she didn’t come home *at all*.
Victor called Margaret. “Is Ellie there?”
“Yes. And she’ll *stay* till that *woman’s* gone.”
“Margaret, *stop* this. Ellie *belongs* at home.”
“*Home*?” Margaret scoffed. “Where her *stepmum* rules? Where her own father’s a *stranger*?”
“I *haven’t* changed—”
“Oh, *haven’t* you? Ellie was your *world*. Now? YouEventually, Eleanor returned home with a tentative smile, and though the road ahead wasn’t perfect, they all agreed—slowly, clumsily—to try, not as mother and daughter, but as people who shared a home and, perhaps one day, something like peace.
