Once, in a quiet corner of England, there lived a woman named Margaret Whitmore. She loved two things above all else: herself, without question, and her son, Timothy—devotedly, almost fanatically. Timothy wasn’t just her son; he was the sun around which her carefully polished little universe revolved. From the moment he was born, he had the finest things: toys the neighbours’ children only glimpsed in shop windows, clothes fit for a young lord, and delicacies beyond compare.
Timothy was enrolled in every imaginable activity—ballet (“For your posture, dear!”), fencing (“So you can hold your own!”), and more. Yet, to his credit, Timothy displayed remarkable consistency: he never stayed with anything longer than a month. Studying bored him; exertion was unthinkable. He preferred chasing pigeons in the yard, doodling on posters, and tormenting the family tabby, Marmalade, who once left a lasting souvenir on his new trousers. Margaret would merely sigh, “Oh, well—that’s just his spirit!”
Timothy grew into a lanky, sluggish young man, his hands untouched by labour. And so began Margaret’s new sacred duty: to shield her sun from unworthy influences—especially women. Her standards were exacting: a flat (preferably in London’s better postcodes), a car (foreign-made, no older than three years), and parents of means and standing. Timothy, accustomed to his mother’s wisdom, dutifully dismissed girl after girl. “Really, Tim, her father’s just an accountant!” or “Imagine—she takes the Tube! Hardly your sort.” No girl lasted. None were ever right.
Until one evening, at a community concert in the local hall (where Timothy had wandered in hopes of free refreshments), he collided with a young woman named Emily. Books tumbled from her arms, and Timothy, moved by a rare impulse, helped gather them. He looked into her large, grey eyes—like rain on a winter’s morning—and something clicked. Emily was a librarian. She lived in a modest one-bedroom flat on the outskirts, inherited from her grandmother. She had no car. Her parents were schoolteachers from the Midlands. By Margaret’s measure, a disaster. Yet Emily was gentle, soft-spoken, carried the scent of old books and vanilla. For the first time, Timothy disobeyed. He brought her home.
Margaret greeted Emily like a general surveying a spy. Cold tea. Interrogative questions: “You have a flat? Ah, one bedroom… On the outskirts? Parents? Teachers? How quaint… And no car?” Emily flushed, twisting a napkin, answering softly. Timothy ate his mother’s cake and stared out the window. Inside Margaret raged: “This plain little mouse? For my boy? Never!” Yet Timothy stood firm—for once—and Margaret, through gritted teeth, relented. Not out of acceptance. She bided her time.
The wedding was quiet. Emily moved into Margaret’s home (where else?). And the torment began—what some might call “adjusting,” but was, in truth, slow suffocation. “Emily, this soup is dreadfully bland. Nothing like mine. Timothy adores a proper broth.” “Oh dear, dust on the dresser! Timothy has allergies, you know. It must be wiped daily!” (Emily dusted twice—morning and evening.) “Timothy, look how she’s pressed your shirt—wrinkled! You can’t wear this. Let me fix it.”
Emily endured, loving Timothy, hoping he’d defend her. But he merely muttered, “Try harder, Em. Mum knows best.”
Margaret sharpened her attacks. “Timothy, Emily bought such cheap sausages today! Scrimping on you?” “Oh, Emily, that jumper swallows you whole. Timothy, tell her not to wear it.” (The jumper was new, bought with Emily’s wages.) Emily cried into her pillow. Timothy snapped, “Stop whinging! Mum’s only helping!”
One evening, returning from work (Emily tutored evenings), she found Margaret pouring her homemade soup down the sink. “Oh, Emily! My mistake—it seemed off. Never mind, Timothy—I’ll fry you eggs! No one fries eggs like me!” Emily looked at Timothy. He shrugged. “Mum didn’t mean to. Don’t fuss.”
That was the last straw. Not a scream, but a whisper: “Tim… I can’t bear this.”
“And?” he asked, inspecting his nails.
A month later, they divorced. Emily left quietly, a single suitcase in hand. Margaret rejoiced: “Now, my dear, we’ll find you someone proper!”
And Timothy found—or rather, was found by—Charlotte. Vibrant as a parrot, loud, with a glint of audacity in her eyes. Daughter of a luxury car dealership owner. A Mayfair flat, a Mercedes, parents before whom even Margaret shrank. Charlotte didn’t wait for invitations—she stormed in, heels clicking, expensive perfume trailing.
Dinner became a battleground.
Margaret (sweetly): “Charlotte, this soup’s too spicy. Timothy dislikes spice.”
Charlotte (mouth full): “I love it! Tim, try it—divine! Or don’t. Mother, must you criticise?”
Timothy froze. Mother?
“Charlotte, dust on the dresser—”
“Not my job! Tim, buy a robot vacuum—Dad has one! Mother, hire help if it bothers you.”
“Charlotte, that shirt doesn’t suit Timothy—”
“Nonsense! I picked it! Stylish, isn’t it, Tim?” And Timothy, mesmerised, agreed.
Margaret tried the old tactics. “Timothy, Charlotte bought such dear ham—so wasteful!”
Charlotte cut in: “Parma ham, Mother—delicacy! Tim, you loved it, didn’t you?” And Timothy, tasting it for the first time, adored it.
Timothy changed. Charlotte’s energy, her boldness, entranced him. He argued back. Said no. Defended her. Margaret’s power melted like spring snow.
She fought—wept, claimed Charlotte was ungrateful, feigned illness. Charlotte scoffed. “Heart pains? Call private medicare! Legs aching? Here’s a spa brochure—we’ll book you in!”
Years passed. After one final clash—Margaret shrieking, “Gold-digger!”—Charlotte said, icy calm: “Margaret, you broke poor Emily. You won’t break me. Tim—choose. She lives quietly, or elsewhere. I won’t tolerate this war.”
Timothy looked at his mother—her face twisted with spite. At Charlotte—vivid, defiant, his. Softly, firmly: “Mum… You need rest. Proper care.”
And so Margaret found herself at Silverbrook, a private care home. Quick arrangements. A doctor (really a psychiatrist) noted signs of decline. The place was clean, the staff polite—but it wasn’t her home. Her kingdom. Timothy and Charlotte visited rarely, bearing exotic fruits she could scarcely chew, speaking of holidays abroad.
She sat by the window. Neat gardens outside, not hers. No Timothy’s laughter—just the old man’s cough down the hall. No authority—only helplessness. And in her throat, a lump. Not from humiliation. From something else.
Tears streaked her lined cheeks. She remembered Emily. Soft footsteps in the kitchen. The smell of her simple, earnest meals. How Emily, wordless, re-pressed Timothy’s shirts after Margaret’s jabs. How she brought chamomile tea when Margaret feigned illness. How she endured, endured…
“Emily…” she whispered to the empty air. “Silly girl… Quiet thing… Foolish…”
Her fists clenched. The chair’s upholstery felt cold.
“Foolish…” Her voice cracked. “But you… You’d never have sent me here. Never.”
The realisation cut deep. She had wrung Emily dry—made room for someone “worthy.” And got Charlotte, who tolerated no weaklings. Not even a once-mighty mother.
Outside, dusk fell. The night-light flickered on. Margaret sat motionless, staring at her tear-streaked reflection in the dark glass. Regret—sharp, unbearable—pierced her. She’d driven away the one who might have shown her mercy. The one who’d never have left her by this cold window. Too late, Margaret. Karma isn’t a boomerang—it’s a red Jaguar, speeding off into the sunset, leaving you stranded on the roadside of your own making.
