“All Right Then, Dear Mum! You Have Your Own Home—That’s Where You Belong. Don’t Come Over Unless We Invite You.” My mother lives in a quaint English village, nestled beside a gentle river. A stretch of woodland starts just behind her garden, and in season, we gather bountiful berries and wild mushrooms. Since childhood, I’d run through familiar meadows with a basket, relishing nature’s gifts. I married my schoolmate, whose parents live nearby, just across the lane. Their garden doesn’t have access to the river or the woods, so when we visit from the city, we always stay with my mum. Lately, mum’s changed—perhaps it’s her age, or perhaps jealousy over my husband—leading to holiday visits that spiral into arguments. Peaceful resolutions became rare. Once, when we stayed with my in-laws, mum picked a fight with her own beau over trivial matters. My mother-in-law was so upset, she shouted so loudly the whole lane could hear their long-standing grievances. A month later, once tempers cooled, my husband and I hatched a plan—to build our own home, so no one’s feelings would be hurt and we’d have a place to truly belong. Sorting out the land took ages, but we managed. My in-laws eagerly pitched in; my father-in-law was a constant presence on our building site. But mum was nothing but trouble—coming over, offering unsolicited advice, insulting our progress, making peace impossible. Building the house became a nightmare. A year passed; the house was finished, but relief was short-lived. Mum wouldn’t stop dropping by, accusing us of selfishness and threatening to withdraw her help—forgetting how my husband had always been there to mow her lawn or fix her roof. One day, mum asked: “Why do you even come here anymore? Stay in your city home—when you visit, you’re just flaunting what you have.” That broke my husband’s patience. He calmly approached his mother-in-law, but there was something in his calm that made her edge toward the door. “What are you doing, son-in-law…?” she asked. “Nothing, dear mum! You’ve got your house—so live there. Don’t come here unless we invite you. Let us have a weekend to ourselves now and then. If you need help, call us; if there’s a fire, we’ll come running!” “What do you mean, what fire?” At those words, mum made a hasty exit. I stifled laughter watching her hurry out the gate. My husband, after calming down, raised his hands: “Well, maybe I did go a bit far with the fire comment.” “No, you’re quite right.” We laughed together, recalling the look on mum’s face. Since then, peace has reigned in our new home. Mum no longer pops by, graciously accepts my husband’s help, but only speaks in simple yes or no answers. I suspect she’s still thinking about that imaginary fire.

Author Emily TaylorReading 4 minViews 2

Nothing, Mum! Youve got your own house. Thats where you live. Dont come round here unless we invite you.

My mother lives in a cosy little village tucked beside a winding river. Theres a dense bit of woodland that stretches just behind her cottage, and when the seasons right, you can gather baskets full of wild berries and mushrooms. Since childhood, Id run through those familiar meadows, my wicker basket swinging, feeling utterly at home with the world around me.

I married an old classmate from the village school; his parents actually live just across the lane from my mother, though their property doesnt reach the river or the woods like hers does. So, whenever my husband and I come down from the city, we always stay with my mum.

But recently Mums changed; whether its her age or maybe jealousy over my stepfather, barely a holiday passes without some row. Its become impossible to find common groundthe smallest thing could spark an argument. Even when we stayed at my in-laws a few times, Mum showed up and managed to quarrel with my mother-in-law about absolutely nothing. That time, my mother-in-law blew her top, her voice echoing down the whole street as she let out years worth of frustration.

A month later, after tempers cooled, my husband and I landed on an idea: we ought to build our own house nearby, where we could just relax, out of everyones crossfire, in a place that was truly ours.

Sorting out land took ages, but in the end, we got something sorted. My in-laws were surprisingly supportive, jumping in to help from the get-go; my father-in-law was at the site every day, his boots muddy, his hands always busy.

The one snag in everything was Mumshed pop over, dish out advice nobody asked for, nitpick every stone and timber as if it were her own house. In a word, she gave us no peace. Building that home, exhausting as it was, became a nightmare.

After a year, the new house finally stood ready, and we hoped we could breathe. Not a chance. Mum kept turning up, accusing us of being selfish, saying wed left her out to dry. She refused to hear that my husband had always helped around her placemowing lawns, patching her roof, doing odd jobs.

One day, Mum looked at me and said:
Why do you even come here? Stay in your precious city. When you do show up, you just flash your success around.

That was the last straw for my husband. He walked over, calm but with an edge in his voice, and my mum, sensing something, started to edge toward the door.
What is it, son-in-law?
Nothing at all, Mum. Youve your own housego enjoy it. Don’t come round unless we ask. Give us just one weekend of peace now and then. If you need help, ring us. If the place burns down, well be over in a flash!
What do you mean? What fire!

At that, Mum almost sprinted out, glancing back as though the house itself might catch an ember. I barely held back laughter, catching my husband’s guilt as he shrugged:
Well perhaps mentioning a fire was a bit much.
No, that was spot on.

We laughed until tears came, remembering the look on Mums face. And, from then onwards, our new house stayed calm and quiet. Mum doesnt call round unexpectedly anymore; she gladly accepts my husbands help, but keeps conversation strictly business. I suppose shes still thinking about fires.

Sent to the Care Home — Don’t you start with that nonsense, Alice, not a word of it! — Mrs. Gladys Thompson shoved away her bowl of porridge with surprising strength. — You want to pack me off to an institution, do you? So they can stick me with whatever they like and suffocate me with a pillow if I make a fuss? It won’t happen! Alice took a deep breath, trying not to look at her grandmother’s trembling hands. — Nan, what institution? It’s a private care home. It’s next to the woods, nurses are there round-the-clock. You’ll have company there, a huge telly to watch. Here, you’re alone all day while Dad’s at work. — That “company” rubbish, I know all about it — the old woman wheezed, settling back on her pillows. — They’ll rob me blind, take my flat, and chuck me in some ditch. Tell Paul straight: he’ll never get me out of my house alive. Let him look after me himself. He’s my son, isn’t he? Didn’t sleep a wink when he was sick with measles, now it’s his turn. — Dad’s working two jobs just to pay for your meds! He’s fifty-three, his blood pressure’s all over the place, not once been to the cinema in three years, let alone had a holiday! — He’ll manage, — Gladys clamped her lips shut. — Still young. And you watch your mouth. Children don’t tell their elders what to do. Go on, clean up that mess! Filth everywhere! Alice stepped into the hallway and exhaled noisily. How is she supposed to talk to her? Her father came home at seven. He sat down heavily on the footstool, staring at the floor. — Dad, you okay? — Alice took the heavy grocery bag from him. — Fine, love. Work’s stacked up at the warehouse, end-of-year coming. How’s Gran? — As usual. Another row about the care home, says we’re out to get rid of her. Dad, we can’t go on. After bills this month we’ve got three hundred quid for food. And I’ve got halls to pay for, plus books. — We’ll manage, — Paul heaved himself up, pulled off his shoes. — I took on another shift. Night security, every other night. — That’s mad! When will you sleep? You’ll collapse at this rate! He said nothing, just filled a saucepan and put it on the hob. — Has she eaten? — Half went on the bed. I changed the sheets. — Right. Go do your studying for exams. I’ll feed her, and sort her out. Alice watched her limping father go to her grandmother’s room. She pitied him terribly. She saw the man who once laughed and joked fade day by day. The jokes were gone; joy vanished from his eyes. *** A week later, things got worse — he came home late, clearly unsteady. — Dad? Are you ill? — I’m fine, Alice. Just dizzy on the Tube. Too stuffy. — Sit down. I’ll check your blood pressure. The monitor showed 180 over 110. Alice silently fetched the tablets. — Tomorrow you’re not going in. I’m calling the doctor. — I can’t — he winced. — Inspection tomorrow. If I’m not there, I’ll lose my bonus. And Mum’s council tax just went up. — Sell her flat, Dad! — Alice whispered, so Gran wouldn’t hear. — Sell her one-bed in Essex. Six hundred grand — that’s masses for us. Clear the debts, hire a proper carer. Dad sighed: — She won’t agree… — Dad, she’s not set foot in the place for five years! What’s the point if she’s bedbound? He didn’t answer — a loud bang sounded in the other room. Gladys was banging her mug for attention. — Paul! Paul, get in here! Who are you whispering with? Gossiping about me again? — her creaky voice echoed. Paul took the pill Alice offered and went. *** Six years ago, Dad had a girlfriend — Helen. Kind and calm, she visited, brought lemon drizzle cake, and they planned weekends away. It ended when Gran fell ill. Helen tried to help, but Gladys made her life hell. — Coming after my son, are you? — she’d shout, faking “heart attacks” every time Paul had a date. — Get rid of her! Out! So Helen left, and Dad didn’t even try to get her back. Later, when Alice was revising for exams, the house phone rang. Dad wasn’t home. — Hello? — Is that Paul Thompson? — a male voice asked. — No, this is his daughter. What’s happened? — This is HR. Your dad collapsed at work. Paramedics took him to City Hospital. Write down the address. Alice scrawled the details over her revision notes. No sooner had she hung up than Gran hollered for her. — Alice! Who was that? Where’s Paul? Hurry and bring some tea! Alice went in. Gran, mummified with pillows, scowled. — Dad’s in hospital, — Alice said tersely. — Hospital? — Gladys froze, then sneered: — Well, you lot have driven me to it! He shouted at me yesterday, and now God’s punished him. No one ever thinks of me! Who’s going to feed me now? Put that kettle on. Alice left in silence. *** For three days Alice scrambled between hospital and home. Doctors diagnosed Paul with a hypertensive crisis caused by chronic stress. They ordered strict bedrest. — Alice, how’s Mum? — he asked first thing when she visited. — She’s fine, Dad. Our neighbour’s checking in. You need to focus on yourself. At least a fortnight off. — Two weeks… I’ll get sacked… Money… — Sleep, — Alice tucked him in. — I’ll sort everything. I promise. On day four, when she got home, Gran greeted her with a barrage of nagging. — Where d’you wander to? I’m lying in filth, Paul’s lazing in hospital, and I’m left to rot! Alice balled her fists and spoke, steady and calm. — Listen, Nan. Dad’s very ill, next time could be a stroke. — Codswallop! — Gladys scoffed. — He’s tough. Takes after his dad. Come turn me, my side’s going numb. — No, — Alice sat down. — I’m not turning you. Or feeding you. Gladys stared at her in disbelief. — What’s this now? You lost your mind, girl? — No. There’s no money. None. Dad can’t work, no bonus coming. Your pension barely covers your medication. — Rubbish! Paul’s bound to have some savings. — No savings. It all went last month, on your hospital tests. So either sign to let us sell your Essex flat, or tomorrow I’ll ring Social Services — they’ll take you to a state home. Free. — You wouldn’t dare! — Gladys shouted. — I’m his mother! This is my home! — Your home? You’re destroying your son, and you don’t care if he never leaves hospital. All that matters is your comfort. I called the care home about a place. There’s one free now — money from your flat pays for it. The care there is excellent. — I’m not going, — Gladys began coughing. — Then starve. There’s no food money. I’m out working all day tomorrow. Water’s on your table. Up to you. Alice left, closing the door. She was shaking. She’d never been cruel, but knew now: unless she put a stop to this, she’d lose her dad. And Gran… would simply outlive them both if allowed to drain their lives away. The night was silent. Alice stayed out of the room, though she heard Gladys calling, sobbing, cursing. She entered only in the morning. — Some water… — the old woman croaked. Alice held up the cup. — Well? Are we signing? Solicitor arrives at noon. — Vultures… — Gladys rasped. — After everything… Fine. Write your papers. Tell Paul… tell him to visit. — He will. When he’s back on his feet. And I will, too. Promise. *** Paul sat on a bench in the care home’s park, looking much better — a little weight on, pinker cheeks. His mother sat nearby in her wheelchair — clean and wrapped in a new shawl, munching on an apple. — Paul? Paul, — she called. — Yes, Mum? — Did you ring Helen? Made it up, have you? Paul looked surprised. — I did. She’s coming on Saturday. — Good, — Gladys turned to the flowerbeds. — Let her come. There’s a nurse here, young Lena — very bossy, always telling me off. Let your Helen see how they treat me… And you mind how you treat her, Paul! Bad business when a man makes a woman cry. Your father… Paul smiled and squeezed her hand. Down the path ran Alice, waving, grinning from ear to ear. — Dad! Gran! — she yelled from afar. — I got the grant! And a raise at work! Paul stood with arms wide. Gladys watched them, narrowing her eyes. She still grumbled to herself about being forced from her home, but said nothing aloud. When the carer offered her a massage session, Gladys gave an imperious nod. — All right, dear, just careful — I’m a delicate woman, you know. Last time your masseur nearly broke my leg… You tell him to mind what he’s doing. Like a bear, honestly… The nurse wheeled her away. Alice hugged her father, and the two stood watching the tall pines. For the first time in ages, all three were truly happy. *** Gladys lived to meet her great-grandson — Alice graduated, married a decent man, and had a baby boy. Paul married Helen; Gladys grew close to her new daughter-in-law, even forgot the insults she’d once hurled. She passed away peacefully in her sleep, with no grudges left against her granddaughter or son.