James sat in the kitchen with his wife, Emma. She busied herself at the stove, chattering away without pause. James sipped his coffee, gazing out the window at the rising sun, trying to pick out the important bits from his wife’s endless stream of words.
“James, are you even listening?” Emma’s nails suddenly dug into his shoulder.
“Of course, love!” he replied hastily, gently pushing her hand away. Her manicure, as always, was immaculate.
“Then what did I just say?” Her eyes turned icy with expectation.
James sighed. “You were talking about selling the house again.”
“Yes. And why?”
“If we bring your mum to live with us, things will be easier. We won’t have to penny-pinch so much.”
“You do realise that house is practically worthless? There’s nothing out there for us. No reason for her to stay, especially when her pension barely covers the bills. Why should we keep paying for it? What’s the point?” Emma’s voice dripped with scorn.
At nearly forty, with a sharp understanding of the world, her words carried a chilling weight. That low, slightly husky voice could still captivate him—though it was no longer the light, sweet song of a nightingale, like in her youth.
James was in his forties too, but he’d grown used to doing as Emma said. Usually, it didn’t lead to anything bad—often the opposite.
“Mum has to live somewhere,” he muttered weakly.
“Exactly—with us. We sell the house. That clears our debts and leaves us some extra. And it’ll be livelier, won’t it?” Emma pressed.
James nodded. His job as a structural engineer paid well, but extra cash wouldn’t hurt. Besides, the house was technically in his name, and he hated paying for a place he wasn’t using.
“Right, then. Post the listing tomorrow. Call your mum, tell her to start packing. Once she’s here, we’ll find a buyer soon enough.” Emma flashed a smile—sharp, like a predator spotting prey.
***
Margaret started her day as usual. The sun had risen long ago, but the elderly woman had only just woken. She stepped into the garden to check on her fruit trees when her old Nokia buzzed in her pocket.
New technology bewildered her. Even simple things, like which buttons to press on the washing machine, had taken James multiple attempts to explain. But here, in the countryside, time stood still. Nothing was too complicated, nothing felt out of place.
Magazines she loved, friendly neighbours, a pension at sixty-five—life was good.
Then her son’s voice on the phone made her heart clench.
“Morning, Mum. Listen, Emma and I have talked, and we think it’s time to sell the house.”
“What?!” Margaret staggered to the porch, breathing hard, and sank onto the bench.
“What’s the issue? There’s no point you wasting away in the village. Live with us. The money will sort us out.”
“You want me to move in? I won’t be in the way?”
“Mum, come on! We’ll give you your own room, whatever you need. One big family—easier for you, no more scraping by on your pension. All good things.”
Margaret bit her lip anxiously, but James kept pushing.
“I’ve already listed it. Start packing—I’ll come tomorrow for your things. Don’t bring too much, though. No point dragging it out.”
Just like that, a new life loomed for Margaret. James hung up quickly—always in a rush.
She sat on the bench, lost in thought. They’d long agreed he’d handle the bills—her pension was meagre, but how could she have guessed he’d use that as leverage?
No choice. She’d have to obey.
Groaning, rubbing her aching back, she shuffled inside, thinking of the garden she’d poured her heart into. She’d never see it again.
***
Emma wrinkled her nose.
“Honestly, Margaret, you’re unbelievable. I told you not to make those stews. The whole kitchen stinks.”
With sharp, irritated movements, Emma flung open the window.
Margaret blinked.
“What am I supposed to eat? I’m not used to your cooking.”
“Then make something normal. Pasta, a proper sauce—something we can all eat, or even serve to guests.” Emma turned with that predator’s smile.
“You expect me to cook for an entire party?”
“Just for yourself, then! But it should smell decent and look presentable. Not like your sloppy stews.” Emma inhaled dramatically by the window.
Margaret turned and walked silently to her room.
This was just the beginning.
That evening, as they ate the lovely casserole Margaret had made, James’s phone rang.
“Yes? You want to view the house? Weekend’s fine. Ready to buy straight away? Brilliant—still, best to see it first.”
“Already?” Margaret gaped.
“Priced it low. Not after a fortune, and it needs work anyway. Been empty too long.”
“James,” Margaret said sharply.
“What about James? Can’t you sort your own problems?” Emma cut in. “You should be thinking of what you’ll leave your grandkids, Margaret, not repairs.”
“Have I got any?” Margaret shot back.
Emma stiffened, staring at the wall.
“Exactly. We’ve never had the space.”
“Space? This is a three-bed flat!”
“I raised James in a shared flat! Worked for everything—even signed this place over to you!”
“Times change. Kids need better these days.”
“Either way, Mum, you couldn’t have stayed there alone. Too much upkeep. I couldn’t visit.” James ended the discussion.
***
Margaret never adjusted. First the smells, now the furniture—Emma loved modern style. Glass tables, stone countertops, black tiles. Cold. Oppressive.
She missed her old wallpaper—cheerful greens, reds, pinks. Here, the walls closed in like a concrete cell.
The next day, returning from shopping, she heard rustling.
Emma was stuffing her clothes into bin bags.
“What are you doing?!”
“Tidying! Your room’s a mess!” Emma snapped.
“Where are my things?!”
“Gone! A few bags—they were a wreck!”
Margaret’s hands shook. Those dresses—too small now, but they held memories.
“Clean properly!” Emma barked. “Dust an inch thick on that wardrobe!”
“How am I supposed to reach?”
“Use a chair!”
“And if I fall?”
“We’re redecorating tomorrow,” Emma said flatly.
“Why?”
Emma pointed at the ceiling. “New fittings. A proper chandelier.”
“With what money?”
Emma grabbed a bag and left.
Margaret blocked her path. “Put. It. Down.”
Emma scoffed, tossed the bag on the bed, and stormed out.
That night, James faced questions.
“Mum, she just mixed things up—didn’t want to admit it.”
“Mixed things up? She threw out my clothes! What’ll I wear?”
“We’ll buy new!”
“With what? She’s planning renovations without asking! You invited me here, but I’m a stranger. She scolds me for food smells, TV volume—my hearing’s going! You promised headphones months ago!”
“We’ll sort it out. Emma’s got holiday soon.”
“What holiday?!”
Emma walked in, smirking. “Next week. Already booked—paid for. Just a quick getaway to Spain.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped.
“You said money was tight!”
“Ours to spend,” Emma said coolly.
“You promised me some!”
“Saved it. It’s in the account—we’ll sort it after my trip.”
Margaret left without another word.
That night, she lay awake, weighing her options.
At breakfast, over takeaway pizza, she marched in.
“James, I’m leaving. I’ll stay with Dorothy. Might even find work—they hire pensioners now for staff shortages.”
James choked. “Mum, what?”
“Your Emma’s driving me out. Constant nitpicking! The food smells, the noise—I can’t take it!”
“Wait, it’s not that bad—”
“Too late. I’m packing what’s left before she bins the rest. Keep the money.”
“We promised—we’ll fix this!”
“No fixing. You stood by and let it happen. She treats you like a child.”
She left that day.
James sat, stunned. When Emma came in, they argued fiercely.
She refused to return the money, even cheered Margaret’s departure.
But this time, guilt consumed James.
“Enough! You’ve ruined my trust with Mum—I won’t forgive this! Get out!”
“James, you’re mad! You’ll come crawling back!”
“Take only your things. I’m filing for divorce!”
And so, they parted. Emma flew to Spain. After the divorce, she vanished.
James didn’t care where.
He visitedJames knelt in the garden of his mother’s old house—the one he’d bought back in secret—and handed her the keys with trembling hands, whispering, “Welcome home, Mum.”
