**Betrayal for Profit: A Family Drama**
My life had been peaceful until the scandal with my daughter-in-law erupted. Until then, my relationship with Eleanor, my son’s wife, had been civil—neither warm nor quarrelsome. We exchanged pleasantries, and I made sure not to interfere in their family. But what happened turned everything upside down. Now, I can’t even imagine looking her in the eye after such betrayal.
I’m a pensioner, still working, living alone in a cosy flat on the outskirts of Manchester. My close family in the city consists of my son Thomas, my two cherished granddaughters—Sophie and Emily—and, of course, Eleanor, if she can even be called kin after this. My world revolves around them. I have friends, but those ties are shallow—tea, small talk, and little else. My true joy is my granddaughters, for whom I’d do anything.
Like any grandmother, I adore spoiling Sophie and Emily. I bake them pies, buy them toys, keep up with children’s fashion to surprise them with pretty dresses or colourful schoolbags. My pension and salary allow me to be generous, and seeing their happy faces is priceless. I never neglect Eleanor, either—holiday gifts are always thoughtful, to keep the family harmony intact. Everything I do is for that balance.
Before Eleanor’s birthday, I asked Thomas what she might like. Without hesitation, he said, “A top-of-the-range slow cooker. She loves cooking—she’ll be thrilled.” I knew it wouldn’t be cheap, but for my daughter-in-law’s sake, I tightened my own spending. At the shop, I exhausted the poor assistant, testing every function, comparing models, asking endless questions. Three hours later, I finally chose the perfect one. At home, I unwrapped it to remove the price tags, admired it, and felt satisfied.
Just then, my neighbour Margaret dropped by. Spotting the slow cooker, she gasped, “Margaret—this is a dream! Cooking will be a breeze now! How much was it, if you don’t mind?”
I told her, and her eyes widened. “Goodness, I could never afford that!”
I admitted I wouldn’t have splurged for myself, but for Eleanor—on Thomas’s request—I made an exception. Margaret praised me: “What a mother-in-law! They’re lucky to have you.” We sipped tea, admired the slow cooker once more, and parted cheerfully.
Eleanor’s birthday went splendidly. She beamed when she saw the gift, thanked me over and over, even asked where to place it in the kitchen. We parted on the warmest terms, and I was sure all was well. There was no hint of the storm to come.
A fortnight later, Margaret returned, her face uneasy. “Margaret, I didn’t know whether to tell you… but Eleanor’s selling the slow cooker.”
I was stunned. “Selling it? But she adored it! Where?”
“On a listings site. The price is low—I’d have bought it myself, had I not known it was from you.”
We opened my laptop, and there it was—my slow cooker, nearly new, up for sale! My face burned. Curious, I clicked on the seller’s other listings. I wish I hadn’t. Before my eyes flashed the things I’d given my granddaughters, Thomas, even Eleanor herself: dolls, dresses, even the jumper I’d picked for Thomas! All listed for sale, like unwanted junk.
Seeing me pale, Margaret apologised and left. Unable to contain myself, I called Eleanor. “Eleanor, how’s the slow cooker? Made anything tasty yet? I’ll pop round for tea sometime.”
She hesitated. “Well… you know…”
“Oh, I know, darling, I know!” I cut in. “Why sell it so cheap? You ought to price it higher! And the girls’ dresses, their toys—all of it there! I give from the heart, and you flog it online? If you needed money, you could’ve asked! Or are the sweets I buy the girls next?”
Eleanor realised denial was useless and went on the attack. “What’s the problem? They’re *my* things—I’ll do as I please!”
We argued worse than ever. Later, I phoned Thomas, hoping for support, but it turned out he knew nothing of his wife’s “business.” The slow cooker, incidentally, still sat in their kitchen—for show, no doubt. But what hurt most was that my son didn’t take my side. “Mum, I won’t get involved,” he said, and that wounded me more than anything.
This wasn’t just a quarrel. What Eleanor did was cruel. My gifts, my love for my granddaughters—all reduced to items on a website. How can I trust now? How do I face someone who trampled my feelings so carelessly?
