**Beautiful Lashes and an Empty House: A Cautionary Tale of Choosing Wisely**
Oh, gather round, for I’ve a tale to tell—one that might even quiet the sparrows in the hedgerows with curiosity. As the old saying goes, *”Don’t buy a pig in a poke—lest it bite you.”*
There once lived in our little town a kind, hardworking woman—Margaret Thompson. Her days were never idle: she tended her garden, scrubbed her cottage till the floor shone, and made roast dinners that could tempt a king. Her son, William, was no layabout either—clever with his hands, good-hearted, and ever so generous. But he had one flaw—his heart was soft as fresh bread, quick to pity, quicker still to fall for a pretty face.
One day, he brought home a girl he fancied—Chloe. My word, she was a sight: big eyes, painted lips, lashes like brooms, nails long as rakes but lacking only the polish. A proper doll, she was. But as the wise say, *”Fine feathers don’t make fine birds.”*
From the first glance, Margaret had her doubts. A woman’s heart, like a guard dog, sniffs trouble straight away. She whispered to her son:
“William, love, she doesn’t sit right with me. That one’s got her mind on money and fun, mark my words.”
And how right she was. The first thing Chloe did in the house? Tossed a dirty plate in the sink and plopped onto the sofa. Margaret, who kept things tidy, gently reminded her:
“Best wash that up.”
Not a flicker of care.
“Don’t fancy ruining my nails.”
Margaret hoped it was a jest—until she scrubbed that plate herself, yet the grease clung like sin.
“You’re not thinking of marrying her?” she asked, praying otherwise.
William only sighed dreamily.
“I am. I love her!”
Ah, well—*”Love is blind, and lovers cannot see.”* A few months later, they wed. Margaret, heavy-hearted, handed them the keys to Granny’s flat, hoping distance might soften the sting.
Time passed, and Margaret paid the newlyweds a visit. Oh, what a sight! Dust thick as a finger on the furniture, dishes piled like a mountain in the sink, socks sprouting on the floor like toadstools after rain. Chloe lounged, filing her nails, sighing:
“I’m just finding myself.”
Meanwhile, William bore three loans like shackles. Chloe demanded a car—new, flashy, something to show the world her worth.
“Who’ll pay for it?” Margaret asked.
“Not your concern,” came the snap. “A husband provides. A wife stays pretty.”
That’s when Margaret vowed: *”Not a penny more from me.”*
Not long after, William came begging:
“Mum, take out a loan for me?”
She stood firm.
“No, son. Who made the bed must lie in it.”
He went home empty-handed. What followed? Shouts, slammed doors, tears fit to make the neighbours cross themselves. Chloe wailed that without a car, her life was *ruined*, till William, worn to the bone, sent her packing. Soon came the divorce.
So remember this, my dears: *”A house isn’t made of bricks, but of peace.”* What good’s a wife who prizes manicures over mending? Love isn’t just sweet words—it’s sweeping floors and sharing burdens. Better a humble home in harmony than marble halls ringing with shouts.
