**Betrayal by Gifts: A Family Drama**
My life had been trundling along quite peacefully—until the scandal with my daughter-in-law erupted. Up until then, my relationship with Eleanor, my son’s wife, had been perfectly civil—no deep warmth, but no rows either. We exchanged pleasantries, kept things polite, and I made a point not to meddle in their family business. But what happened next turned everything upside down. Now, I don’t even know how to look her in the eye after such a betrayal.
I’m a pensioner, still working part-time, living alone in a cosy flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The only family I have nearby is my son, Thomas, my two adored granddaughters—Sophie and Emily—and, of course, Eleanor, though after all this, I’m not sure “family” still applies. My world revolves around them. I’ve got friends, of course, but it’s all surface-level—a cuppa here, a quick chat, and see you next time. The real joy in my life? My girls. Those granddaughters are my whole world, and I’d do anything for them.
Like any doting grandmother, I love spoiling Sophie and Emily. Baking them cakes, buying toys, keeping up with the latest kids’ fashion so I can gift them cute little dresses or colourful backpacks. My pension and part-time wages allow for a bit of generosity, and seeing their happy faces? Priceless. I include Eleanor, too, of course—holiday gifts, nice bits and bobs for Thomas—all to keep the peace.
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’d be over the moon.” Knew it wouldn’t be cheap, but for her sake, I cut back elsewhere. In the shop, I practically interrogated the poor sales assistant—checking features, comparing models, quibbling over every detail. Three hours later, having exhausted both of us, I picked the perfect one. At home, I unwrapped it to remove the price tags, admired my purchase, and felt rather pleased.
Just then, my neighbour Margaret popped in. Taking one look at the slow cooker, she gasped, “Margaret! That’s the dream right there. Cooking’ll be a breeze now. How much did that set you back, if you don’t mind?”
I told her the price, and she whistled. “Blimey, I couldn’t stretch to that!”
I admitted I wouldn’t have splurged on myself, but for Eleanor—at Thomas’s suggestion—I made an exception. Margaret praised me, saying, “Now that’s a proper mother-in-law! Lucky them.” We had a nice cuppa, admired the slow cooker one last time, and parted ways.
Eleanor’s birthday went swimmingly. She was absolutely chuffed with the gift, thanked me a dozen times, even asked where I thought it should go on the worktop. We parted on the warmest terms ever, and I left certain all was well. No storm clouds on the horizon.
Then, a fortnight later, Margaret turned up again—this time, her face grim. “Margaret… I don’t know if I should say this, but… Eleanor’s selling that slow cooker.”
I gaped. “She’s what? But she wanted it for ages! Where?”
“On a resale site. Price is a steal—I’d buy it myself if I didn’t know it was your gift.”
We fired up the laptop, and sure enough—there it was. My slow cooker, barely used, up for sale! My face burned. Curious, I clicked on the seller’s other listings. Wish I hadn’t. There, flashing before me, were all the things I’d gifted the girls, Thomas, even Eleanor herself: dolls, dresses, even that jumper I’d picked out for Thomas! All listed for sale like unwanted clutter.
Margaret, seeing me pale, apologised and left. Fuming, I rang Eleanor.
“Eleanor, how’s the slow cooker treating you? Made anything tasty yet? Fancy me popping round for tea?”
She stammered, “Oh, well, you know…”
“Oh, I do know, darling, I do!” I cut in. “Why’d you list it so cheap? You ought to charge more! And the girls’ dresses? Their toys? All up there. I give from the heart, and you flog it online? If you needed money, I’d have slipped you some! Or should I start giving the girls sweets to sell?”
Eleanor realised the jig was up and went on the offensive. “What’s the problem? They’re my things—I’ll do what I like with them!”
We rowed like never before. Next, I rang Thomas, hoping for backup—but turns out, he’d had no idea about his wife’s little side hustle. The slow cooker, by the way, was still on their counter—just for show, apparently. The real kicker? He didn’t take my side. “Mum, stay out of it,” he muttered, and that stung worst of all.
This isn’t just a tiff. What Eleanor did was rotten. My gifts, my love for my granddaughters—all turned into listings on some website. How do I trust her now? How do I face someone who trampled on my feelings so easily?
