Margaret Whitmore rocked gently in her armchair, knitting needles clicking softly in her hands. Nearby, her grandson slept peacefully on the well-worn sofa. She gazed at him with quiet pride, thinking, *He’s growing up strong – and it’s all thanks to my care.*
Margaret had always prided herself on thrift. When she and her late husband Albert first married, they’d counted every penny. Those lean years taught her the joy of simple things – how to stretch a meal, mend clothes until threadbare, and raise children happily without extravagance.
Now that her daughter Emily had married William, Margaret noticed with disapproval how he dismissed the value of careful spending. William earned good money at his accounting firm, but in her eyes, he wasted it – fancy toys, premium nappies, designer baby clothes. *”We made do with far less in my day,”* she’d often mutter, remembering hand-me-downs and home remedies.
Her grandson stirred, his jumper – a neighbour’s cast-off – slightly frayed at the cuffs. *Why buy new when old suffices?* But Emily’s attempts at thrift seemed to irritate William. He brought home endless gadgets, blind to Margaret’s creed: it wasn’t what you had, but how wisely you used it.
A sigh escaped her as the needles kept moving. *Young people today want everything shiny and new. We knew happiness wasn’t bought.* She remembered teaching Emily to darn socks, to make a Sunday roast last three meals.
—
William stared blankly at his office window as dusk painted London’s skyline indigo. Spreadsheets blurred before him. His thoughts circled back to the battlefield his home had become – Emily and that infernal thrift of hers, endlessly egged on by Margaret.
They’d been poor once, true. Back when his junior salary barely covered rent and beans on toast. But his promotion changed that. Now, his wallet could breathe – yet they still pinched pennies like paupers. Every kindness he offered turned into an argument: the silk scarf Emily returned, the smartphone she called “frivolous,” all punctuated by Margaret’s lectures about *”the good old days.”*
The baby should’ve been their joy. Instead, it became a war. Emily refused proper nappies, insisting on cloth rags *”like Gran used.”* She scrimped on everything – second-hand cots, boiled vegetables instead of proper baby food.
*We can afford better,* he’d pleaded. *Our son deserves better.* But his words crashed against their stubbornness. *”We turned out fine without all this fuss,”* they’d say, as if deprivation were virtue.
That night, after yet another row, he’d gathered them at the kitchen table. Calmly, reasonably, he’d explained: money was a tool, not a trophy. That some comforts weren’t extravagance but necessity. Their faces hardened as he spoke.
Now, alone in the darkening office, William clenched his fists. Re-educating Emily? Hopeless. Divorce? Unthinkable. But as the city lights flickered on beyond the glass, resolve hardened in his chest.
“They won’t win,” he whispered to the reflection of a man outnumbered but unbroken. “I’ll not surrender my son to their miserly ways. One way or another… *things will go my way.*”
