“You’re just a PAR-A-SITE!” spat the mother-in-law, oblivious to who truly dwelled in her home.
On Red Lane, in the heart of the picturesque town of Riverford, among modest cottages and well-tended gardens, stood a two-storey manor with white columns, a grand porch, and manicured lawnsas if lifted from the cover of a countryside magazine. This house was not just a dwelling; it was a testament to the grit, labour, and pride of Margaret Whitmore, a sixty-two-year-old woman with silver hair coiled tight in a bun and eyes alight with the fire of past triumphs. A former headmistress of a primary school, a pillar of the community, she had built this house in the harsh days of the ninetieswhen every brick was hard-won, every pound squeezed from necessity. Now, gazing at the perfectly hung curtains in the living room, she felt warmth swell in her chest. This house was her life, her legacy, her fortress.
“Lucy!” Her voice rang sharp as a bell, rattling the windowpanes. “Edward will be home soon! Dont leave your husband starving! Dinneron the table!”
From the kitchen came a murmur, barely louder than a whisper: “Yes, Margaret Whitmore.”
Lucy, a woman of thirty-five with soft features and weary eyes, stood at the stove stirring a thick beef stew, its aromathyme, garlic, slow-cooked meatfilling the house. She had been Edwards wife for five years, yet still felt like an outsider in this home, where every word from her mother-in-law sounded like a verdict, every movement an inspection of her worth.
“And really,” came the voice behind her. Margaret swept into the kitchen like a general onto a battlefield. “When will you find proper work? Sitting here like a poor relation, in my sons house, eating my food, using what Ive built. Edward? He works himself to the bone at the factory. And you? What do you contribute to this family besides pots of soup?”
Lucy stayed silent. Her hands trembled, but she kept her eyes down. Four years ago, she had lost her job as an accountant at the local bank branchshut down like so many others in this provincial town. Since then, she had searched, but in Riverford, where the population barely scraped twenty thousand, jobs were scarce. And when they did appear, they paid penniesbarely enough to live on.
“Margaret Whitmore, Ive been looking” she began softly.
“Looking? Nonsense!” the older woman cut in. “Its convenient, isnt it? Living under my roof, eating my food, my son paying your way. A proper freeloader! A parasite, latched onto this family!”
At that moment, the door swung open. Edward stepped ina burly man of thirty-seven, still in his work clothes, exhaustion in his eyes and a smile on his lips. A foreman at the construction materials plant, he returned each day with the roar of machinery in his ears and dust in his hair. Seeing the tension, he sighed.
“Mum, again? Youre at Lucy again?”
“And why not? Im only speaking the truth!” she snapped. “Four years this woman has lived off our labour! My son works like a horse, and shelike a leech, sucking us dry!”
Edward looked at his wife. Lucy stood with her head bowed, as though crushed under the weight of the words. He knew she wasnt lazy. Knew she kept the house spotless, cooked, cared for him. But he didnt know what lay beneath that quiet.
Because Lucy wasnt just “sitting at home.” Every night, once the house slept, she opened her laptop, slipped on headphones, and vanished into a digital currentbalance sheets, tax filings, consultations for clients from Willowbrook, Ashford, even as far as Nottingham. Over two years, shed built a name”Lucy Ledger, Riverford”quiet, reliable, impeccable. Her income? Between two and four thousand a month, clear. Sometimes more.
But the real revelation came six months ago.
“Mum, lets just eat in peace,” Edward sighed, slumping into his chair.
At dinner, Margaret didnt relent.
“Look at Sarah Coopers daughter-in-lawnow theres a proper girl! Works at the council, earns three grand a month, and this one” she jabbed a scornful nod at Lucy, “only knows how to spend my sons money.”
“I dont spend your money,” Lucy said, quiet but firm.
“Oh? What else can you do?” Margaret scoffed. “Besides sitting on your backside?”
“Margaret Whitmore, do you remember when your house was nearly repossessed?”
The older woman froze.
“Repossessed? What nonsense?”
“Through the bailiffs. Mortgage arrears. Starting bidfour hundred thousand. You remember, dont you? It was a nightmare. You cried every night. Then a buyer appeareda kind businessman who let you stay, charged a token rent…”
“Yes, I remember…” Margaret whispered. “A miracle. A good soul…”
“Do you know who that was?” Lucy rose, walking to the cabinet.
She pulled out a thick folder, laid it on the table. The room stilled.
“It was me. I bought this house.”
Silence. Thick as the stew on the stove. Edwards fork clattered. Margaret paled.
“What? You? How? With what money?”
“Grandmas flat in Willowbrook. My parents loaned me the rest. And my savingsfrom the night work you never knew about.”
“What night work?” Edward rasped.
“While you slept, I worked. Did the books for dozens of businesses. Remotely. Earned more than you.”
“What?” Edward stared as if shed sprouted wings.
“Yes. Sometimes double. But I kept quiet. Didnt want to hurt you. You were suffering enough… If Id just said, I bought the house, youd never have believed me.”
“So… this house… is yours now?” Margaret breathed.
“Yes. The deeds in my name. But I wasnt going to throw you out. This house is your life. Your memories. I just didnt want you to lose it.”
“But we pay rent…” Edward began.
“To me. A hundred quid a monthjust a symbol, so you wouldnt feel indebted. It covers the utilities.”
Margaret clutched her chest.
“So… I live in my daughter-in-laws house… and pay her for it?”
“Yes. But I didnt want you to know. I wanted you to think some kind stranger had helped.”
“Then why tell us now?”
“Because Im tired of being a parasite. But youre right. I am one.”
“How?” Edward frowned.
“A parasite on your love for this house. I feed off your happiness here. Your family hearth. Thats what matters to me.”
“Lucy…” Tears streaked Margarets cheeks. “I didnt know… Forgive me…”
“For what? You werent wrong. I am a parasite. Just not on your moneyon your joy. And Im glad I could save it.”
“How much do you spend on the house?” Edward asked.
“Bills, taxes, repairs… But lets not dwell on that. Its my concern.”
After a pause, Margaret whispered,
“Why hide the work?”
“Because it was easier for you to think me a housewife. And for meto work in silence. I didnt want applause. I wanted peace for you.”
“But you saved our home!”
“I bought a house I loved. Lucky for me, a wonderful family already lived here. I just gave them a chance to stay.”
Edward shook his head.
“Lucy, youre a genius. You see family differently.”
“How else? Familys where everyone gives what they can. Youlove, wisdom, warmth. Mestability, safety, means. Not debt. Exchange. Fair. Honest. Loving.”
“So what does that make us?” Margaret asked.
“It means we feed off each other. Youoff my money. Ioff your love. Edwardoff our care. Him and Ioff your wisdom. And thats fine. Thats family.”
Margaret wiped her tears.
“So Im sustained by my daughter-in-laws energy?”
“We sustain each other. And you know what? Its beautiful. Because real family isnt a wallits a web. A net of love, where everyone gives and takes.”
A month passed.
The house transformed. Lucy no longer hid. She set up an office upstairs, hung a sign: “Ledger & Co. Accounts. Tax Consultancy.” Clients camefrom town, from villages. And Margaret? She greeted them with coffee, biscuits, a listening ear. Slowly, she joined in. Became an assistant. One day, she said:
“Lucy… maybe I should work too? Feels wrongyou carrying us.”
“What if we opened a nursery?” Lucy suggested. “My clients always complainnowhere to leave the kids. And youyouve got the experience, the heart!”
