A Nephew is Closer to His Uncle Than a Son

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 9 minViews 1

Take him away for good, Milly snaps, her voice sharp. All these formalities are pointless.

Nick, his tone matching hers, retorts, I didnt ask you what I should do!

Milly fires back, If youd ever asked me once, you wouldnt be breaking things.

Nick huffs, If I had anything to ask, Id have asked. It isnt up to you!

Dont tell me how to act, Milly snaps again. You have no conscience, but at least think about the boy!

What do you think I dont? Nick shouts, his temper flaring. I think about him more than you do!

And Im not only thinking; Im feeding and raising him!

You can keep threatening me that youll go to work! Milly snaps.

I will, Nick says, as soon as I find something.

Then find it first, Nick replies, his voice steady, and then open your mouth.

After a few minutes of Millys offended sighs, Nick continues getting ready.

Milly tries to calm the tension, It must be hard on Tom that youre always with Jamie, she says evenly. When youre with them, I notice you give Jamie more attention.

Nick defends himself, Hes older, we have plenty to talk about, and hes already forming his own ideas about who hell become.

Milly presses, Arent you done caring about your own son?

Nick answers, Hes still little. By law he needs his mothers care more than his fathers. Focus on Tom while hes young. Ill

Ill spend time with my nephew, Milly finishes his husbands line. Hear that? My nephew! And ignore my own son!

No ones spitting on anyone, Nick snarls, I give everyone time. Our Tom has a dad whos always there, and my sister raises her son with my mum, not with a man. Two women arent what a twelveyearold needs.

He asks, Should I stay cold while two women break my nephews mind? Will he ever become a real man?

Milly snaps, Nick, should I call my mother over so you finally notice Tom?

Nick growls, Both of you can leave! All Im missing is your mother!

Milly presses, What about Tom?

Nick smirks, Hell stay with me. You have nothing to give him! Im not going to fund a fairytale life with child support. Youll end up paying me yourself, so at least find a job soon.

Milly swallows the rebuke; Nick is rightshe has nothing left. Her ambitions vanished during the marriage; she never earned a degree. She took a maternity leave from university and never returned to the lecture hall.

Nick resumes packing in silence.

Milly breaks the quiet, Did you buy all those toys for Jamie? she asks, surprised. I thought Tom would get something too.

He already has enough, Nick shrugs, and Jamie has no one else to rely on.

Both parents are useless; only the nephew seems pitied, destined to disappear with them.

Milly cant think of a retort, so she simply moves to help Nick. A greeting card slips from a stack. She catches it reflexively, opens it, and reads the words. Her eyes widen as the card flutters to the floor.

Nick, what does to my beloved son mean?

Nick snaps, Who asked you to stick your nose where it doesnt belong? Stop meddling!

Milly murmurs, Ill stop, but what does it mean?

Nick exclaims, Good grief, can you be any more clueless? Any decent woman would have guessed by now!

Milly had every chance to become Nicks second wife, but fate had slated her as his first. The woman prophesied to be his first wife never wanted the title. She lived with Nick in a rented flat for about a year before vanishing without a trace. Her parents claimed they never knew where Emily went; friends and acquaintances could only guess.

Nick mourns brieflyreally, not at all. As the saying goes, A load off ones back makes the cart lighter. He carries on, finding unexpected pleasure in his life.

A year later Emily reappears, this time cradling a baby. Rumors spread that shed press Nick for alimony or even force a marriage. Instead, she arrives simply to hand the child over to her father and disappear again. She could have slipped a bundle into Nicks hands, leaving the story ambiguous. He could have claimed the infant was a stray found on the street, sealing the childs fate in an orphanage.

But Emily acts smarter. She places a basket with the baby on the doorstep of the house where Nicks mother and sister live, tucking a tearstained letter inside: she loves to raise the child but lacks money, strength, and means; she battles postpartum depression and a serious diagnosis that will require lifelong treatment. She pleads not to abandon the baby, her nephew and grandson.

Nick is summoned for clarification.

I have no idea, he shrugs. Maybe she found him somewhere and you believed her. Well run a test first.

The test confirms the child is Nicks son, sparking a lengthy discussion.

Where do I put this baby? What am I supposed to do with him now? Ive just started my business! Nick protests. I have contracts, negotiations, deals!

And I have to work hard because my payroll cant cover a full staff! another voice adds.

Anne, the family solicitor, interjects, Are you suggesting we hand the child over to a childrens home?

Nick replies, Only we and you know hes my son, plus Emily. And Emily wont be back in town.

Anne pushes, But what about us? How do we live if our own child ends up in a home?

Nick grunts, Ill manage, as I wish for you.

Linda, Nicks sister, chimes in, You have no conscience, sending your own child to a home!

Nick snaps, Who asked you to interfere? Dont stitch a horses tail and then blame me!

Linda retorts, I would never give my child away!

She is twenty, had started a relationship, became pregnant, then suffered a miscarriage and a diagnosis that makes further pregnancy impossible. Children are a painful subject for her.

Anne shakes her head, If you put the child in a home, youll be ruinedno business, no happiness, no life.

Nick slams his fist on the table, If you all think youre so righteous and charitable, lets do this: Linda registers the child as her own, Ill find the money, well sort everything out. Well all raise him together, and Ill help as a good uncle.

Linda asks, Help how?

Support him! Nick shouts. Clear?

Anne wonders, What if you get married?

Nick shrugs, What changes? Ill keep helping my sister with the nephew. Everything stays normal.

Nicks money transfers are honest and sufficient, but he rarely appears. For three years he doesnt show up at home. When his mother or sister ask, he says hes busy with both business and personal life. Their meeting at a wedding leaves a bitter taste, yet he feeds them the answers they need.

Milly, pregnant and studying, watches as Nicks son, Tom, is born. Seeing his baby grow irritates him with the constant cries, reminding him of Jamie.

The kids already shouting! he mutters, driving to his sisters house to bond with his nephew.

Fatherly feelings, sparked by Toms birth, pour into Jamie because he responds. Tom, however, remains on the side. This goes on for eight years.

Tom isnt completely neglected; he gets occasional attention, which Nick thinks is enough. Yet Nick leans more toward Jamie. Four years is a long stretch for a child, and activities suitable for a twelveyearold dont fit an eightyearold. Nick has already exhausted what he could do with Jamie, leaving Tom uninteresting.

Milly sees her own son pushed to the background for the sake of the nephew. Resentment, jealousy, irritation, and indignation swirl, but she cant change anything. Shes financially dependent on Nick. When she finally looks for work, only lowpaid, unskilled jobs are offeredunthinkable for the wife of a businessman used to comfort.

I cant be a cleaner or dishwasher! she protests, managing only a few biting remarks, hoping Nick will remember their son and give him equal attention.

***

Milly gasps, So, thats your son? Your own boy? Why is his sister raising him?

Nick sighs, Yes, Tom is my son. Linda isnt his mother, but she raises him like her own.

And Tom already knows she isnt his real mother! Nick adds bitterly. What more do you want from me?

Milly rubs her forehead, then covers her mouth, takes a deep breath, her gestures betraying confusion and overwhelm.

Nick, shall we take him in? she asks calmly. Let the brothers live together. Ill try to be Toms mother.

If he wont accept me, at least his father stays close, and you wont have to split between sons.

Nick snarls, You willing to adopt my child?

Milly shrugs, Why not? Im ready to adopt him.

She isnt entirely sure she can take a strangers child, but thinks that with both boys under one roof Nick will split his time fairly. She vows to give both of them equal love and attention.

After a week of thinking, Nick decides. He takes Jamie home, formally acknowledges him as his son, and Milly adopts him, just as she promised.

Anne advises, Take good care of him! Shes a saint; another woman would have sent you to hell. Nick looks at Milly with new eyes, feeling genuine love and gratitude.

Jamie calls Milly Mum after a year, though it takes time for the title to stick. Eventually, they become a perfectly ordinary, happy family.

My Mother-in-Law Stormed In to Inspect My Fridge—Only to Be Shocked When She Found the Locks Changed “What’s going on here?! My key won’t fit! Are you barricaded in there? Emma! James! I know someone’s home, the electricity meter is spinning! Open up this instant—my bags weigh a ton, I’m exhausted!” Mrs. Margaret Dawson’s voice, shrill as a town crier’s bell, echoed through the hallway and off freshly painted stairwell walls, carrying clear as day to every flat in earshot. She stood before my son’s flat, aggressively rattling the handle and trying to force her battered old key into the brand-new, shiny chrome lock. By her side on the stone landing sat two gigantic tartan shopping bags, bulging with limp bunches of dill and the neck of a jar filled with something murky and white. I was just climbing the stairs to the third floor and slowed my pace, heart hammering. Every visit from my mother-in-law was a test of endurance, but today was especially charged. Today was “D-Day.” The day my patience of five years snapped—and my home defence plan was finally in motion. I took a steadying breath, adjusted my handbag strap, fixed on a mask of polite calm, and continued up. “Mrs. Dawson, good evening,” I said, stepping onto the landing. “There’s really no need to shout—you’ll get the neighbours calling the police. And don’t try breaking the door, it’s not cheap to fix.” She spun round, her face framed by tight, permed curls, cheeks flushed with righteous indignation and her beady eyes flashing with accusation. “Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed, hands on hips. “Look at you. I’ve been out here for ages, calling, knocking! Why isn’t my key working? What’s going on—have you changed the locks?” “We have,” I replied calmly, taking out my keyring. “Last night. The locksmith came.” “And you didn’t even tell me—his mother?” she spluttered, scandalised. “I’ve come all this way with groceries, looking after the two of you, and you shut the door in my face? Give me the new key—right now! I need to put the meat in the freezer, it’s already starting to go.” I approached but didn’t open the door, standing firmly in her path and meeting her gaze. In the past, I would have flustered, made excuses, rifled through for a duplicate key—anything to avoid a telling-off from ‘Mum.’ But what happened two days ago had burned away all desire to be the “good girl.” “There won’t be a key for you, Mrs. Dawson,” I stated, steady and clear. “Not now, not ever.” Silence descended, ringing out as sharp as her earlier shrieks. She stared at me as if I’d started speaking Swahili or sprouted a second head. “You…what are you on about?” she hissed, her voice low and menacing. “Had too much sun at work? I’m your husband’s mother! I’m the grandmother to your future children! This is my son’s flat!” “This is a flat we bought with a mortgage we both pay for—and the deposit, let’s not forget, came from my Nan’s old two-bed. But it’s not about the square footage. It’s about boundaries, Mrs. Dawson. And you’ve crossed the line.” She gestured wildly, nearly upending a jar in her bag. “Boundaries?! I’m here out of love! Helping you two—you youngsters don’t know how to run a home! Living off chemicals, wasting money! I’m here to carry out an inspection, put things in order, and you talk to me about ‘boundaries’?” “Exactly—an inspection,” I replied coolly, ice rising in my chest. “Let’s think back to two days ago. James and I were at work. You let yourself in—and what did you do?” “I organised your fridge!” she announced, triumphant. “It was chaotic—old jars, stinky cheese, mould! I binned the lot, scrubbed the shelves, left real food—made a big stew, a batch of homemade pies.” “You threw out a Stilton that cost nearly thirty quid,” I began ticking off on my fingers. “You poured my homemade pesto down the sink because you thought it looked ‘green and slimy.’ You binned our sirloin steaks, thinking they’d gone off. Worst of all, you moved my skincare from the fridge to the bathroom cupboard—now they’re all ruined. That’s nearly £150 wasted. But it’s not about the money. It’s about you rifling through my things.” “I saved you from food poisoning!” she screeched. “That cheese was lethal! Proper meat shouldn’t have fat marbling all over it—cholesterol disaster! I’ve brought you nice, healthy chicken and a lovely stew!” “The stew you made from old bones you gnawed on last week?” I snapped. “It’s called BROTH!” she snarled. “You, Emma—yes, you—are spoilt. In the 90s we were grateful for every bone. And you—well, you’re no real housewife. Look at your fridge—yoghurts, salad leaves…where’s the real food? Where’s the bacon? Where’s my jam? I’ve brought you pickled onions and homemade sauerkraut. Eat them, get some strength in you!” I eyed the jars in her bags. The brine on the pickles looked dubious and the sauerkraut’s sharp tang fought through plastic. “We can’t eat all that salt, Mrs. Dawson. It’s bad for James’s kidneys,” I sighed. “And I’ve asked you a hundred times—not to come without calling, not to touch my things, not to run ‘inspections.’ But you don’t hear me. You think having a key makes our home an annex of yours. That’s why the locks are changed.” “How dare you!” Mrs. Dawson lunged, trying to shove past me with her formidable bulk. “I’m ringing James! He’ll show you—he’ll let his own mother in!” “Ring him,” I nodded. “He’ll be home soon.” She yanked out her ancient brick of a mobile and dialed, glaring at me with a mixture of venom and disbelief. “James? Son?!” she shrieked so loudly I flinched. “Your wife won’t let me in! Changed the locks! I’m standing here like a tramp, bags digging into my hands, I tell you my heart is skipping! Come round—sort her out!” Her expression changed from victorious to puzzled as she listened. “What do you mean, ‘I know’? You knew about the lock? Did you agree? You let her? You’d keep your mother out? What? You’re tired? Tired—of your mother’s care? I gave up my life for you!” She hung up, threw me a look of pure hate. “So you’ve teamed up…well, we’ll see. He’ll come, and you won’t dare keep his mother out.” I simply turned, opened the new lock, and stepped inside. “I’m going in now, Mrs. Dawson. Wait for James here. You’re not coming in.” “We’ll see about that!” she thundered, jamming her foot in the doorway like a determined salesman. But I was ready. I ducked inside and slammed the heavy metal door shut, double turning the locks behind me. I leaned against the door, eyes closed. Outside—pandemonium. She battered the panel, raged at the threshold, and screamed things that would wilt an allotment garden. “Ungrateful! Viper! I’ll report you for starving my son! Bring in the police! Open this door—I’ve got my cabbages to deal with!” I tried not to listen. The kitchen was sparkling clean—a chilling, unfamiliar emptiness after her “raid.” I opened the fridge: a lonely pot of her cabbage stew. The smell of soured veg and fat was repulsive. I dumped it straight into the loo and flushed twice. The pot, I left out on the balcony to deal with later. Hands trembling, I poured a glass of water. Years of enduring her Saturday-morning “dusting,” her re-washing my laundry (“Your detergent doesn’t work”), her endless lectures on “how to keep a husband.” But the fridge was sacred. When I saw my carefully chosen food binned and replaced by jars of dubious pickles and stews that gave James indigestion, I knew: either I set boundaries now or we’d divorce. I refused to turn our home into Mrs. Dawson’s annex. Her ranting eventually faded. Maybe she needed her strength for when James arrived. Twenty minutes later, I heard a key in the lock. I braced myself. James appeared, looking shattered, tie skew-whiff and eye-bags accentuated by the hall light. Behind him, Mrs. Dawson—less blustery, but defiant. “Well? You see, son?” she began, clutching her bags. “Your wife’s lost all shame. Locked me out. Bring those in—there’s pies, I made them for you—” James stopped, blocking his mother’s way. He set his bag on the side, then turned. “Mum, leave your bags here, on the mat. You’re not coming in.” Mrs. Dawson’s jaw dropped. Her cabbage bag slipped from her hand and landed with a splat. “What?” she whispered. “James—are you kicking me out? For her?” “Mum, please stop insulting Emma,” James’ voice was tired but resolute. The night before, as I wept in the kitchen, he’d finally seen the catastrophe we lived with. He always thought, “Mum just means well.” But the receipts from the food she’d binned—he got it: this “care” was ruining our lives, our budget, and his wife’s sanity. “I’m not kicking you out—I’m asking you to leave. We agreed: you call before you visit. You used your key to come unannounced and rearrange everything. You threw out our food. That’s theft and sabotage.” “Sabotage? I was saving you two! You eat rubbish! I care!” “We don’t want care that makes us ill,” James cut her off. “I can’t eat your stew, it gives me stomach aches. Your pies are all bread and onions. We’re grown-ups. We know what we want to eat.” “Is that how you talk now…” she glowered. “Don’t need your mother, is that it? Forgotten who raised you?” “Don’t start, Mum. That’s emotional blackmail. You had the key for emergencies—floods, fires, not fridge round-ups. You broke the agreement. That’s why the lock’s changed. You won’t be getting another.” “Keep your blasted key then!” she howled, loud enough to set the neighbour’s dog off. “You’ll never see me again—I’ll have nothing to do with you and your mouldy cheese! When you get ill, don’t you dare come running!” She grabbed her bags—one split, and a sad parade of shrivelled carrots tumbled onto the landing. “All for YOU!” she bellowed, punting a carrot down the hall. “And this is what I get? Bah!” She spat on the welcome mat, turned, and thumped down the stairs, her curses echoing till the street door slammed shut. James locked up and slumped onto the hall bench. “You alright?” he asked. I hugged him. He smelled of stale office air and anxiety. “Survived. Thank you. I was afraid you’d cave.” “I nearly did,” he admitted. “But when I saw her face… If I didn’t say ‘no’ this time, we’d be done. I’m not losing you over a pot of cabbage.” I laughed—shrill but liberating. “Hey, there are carrots on the landing. Shall I clear them, or neighbours will think we robbed a veg van?” “I’ll sort it. Go, put your feet up. You’re today’s home defence hero.” That night we sat in the kitchen. The fridge was empty. But it was freedom—a chance to fill it only with what *we* loved. We ordered a giant, cheesey pizza—the kind Mrs. Dawson calls “total poison.” “You know,” James said with a grin, “she really won’t come back. She’s too proud. She’ll sulk for a month, then ring to tell us her blood pressure’s up.” “She can call,” I said. “But she’s not getting the key. Ever.” The doorbell rang. We froze. James checked the spyhole. “Who is it?” “Grocery delivery!” came the cheerful shout. I relaxed. I’d forgotten—earlier, while James was clearing up carrots, I’d done an online shop. Ten minutes later, we unpacked the haul: crisp salad, cherry tomatoes, salmon fillets, sugar-free yoghurts. And, crucially, a new wedge of blue cheese. As I put the food away, I felt physically elated. This was *my* fridge. *My* space. *My* rules. “James—” “Hm?” “Tomorrow—should we add a second lock at the bottom, just to be sure?” He grinned, pulling me close. “Absolutely. And a camera, for good measure.” We stood there, bathed in the fridge’s cool glow, grinning like idiots. Because happiness is being understood—but also being left to live and to cook in peace. Sometimes, to achieve that happiness, you have to change not just the locks but the entire relationship system with relatives. It may hurt—but afterwards, blessed, peaceful silence. And finally, you can simply live. If this story felt familiar or helpful, please subscribe to the channel. I’d love your likes and comments!