It’s been four years since I last spoke to my own mother. And no, I don’t feel ashamed.
When I got married, I was barely twenty-two. My husband, James, and I had just finished uni and moved into a tiny, scruffy but charming rented flat on the outskirts of Brighton. Money was tight, but to us, it hardly mattered—we were young, in love, and full of dreams for the future.
We took any job we could find. James worked weekends and odd shifts—hauling bricks on construction sites, delivering parcels, even pulling night shifts as a security guard. I wasn’t idle either—mornings in a corner shop, evenings tutoring maths. Every penny we scraped together went into our savings, hoping for a mortgage on a one-bed flat somewhere, someday.
A little over a year later, at my mum’s birthday party, James casually tossed out an idea after a few pints: why not move in with my parents while he gave their place a proper makeover? Mum had apparently promised not to charge us a penny. I was stunned—he hadn’t even brought it up with me first. But between him and my mum, the pressure was relentless: “Think of the savings, the help, family sticking together.” I caved.
My younger sister, Eleanor, was eighteen by then and barely ever home—always out with friends or crashing at theirs. She and James weren’t exactly close, but Mum adored him. To her, he was the perfect son-in-law: laying tiles, repainting walls, fixing leaky taps—and yes, even helping her retired neighbours with their odd jobs, though not always willingly.
Dad was thrilled—finally, he wouldn’t be roped into fixing everyone else’s wobbly shelves and dripping faucets.
But things between me and Eleanor? Not so peachy. She picked fights over nothing, stirring up drama where none was needed. I let it slide, knowing full well she just wanted us gone.
Then one Friday, Mum and Dad headed off to their weekend cottage, leaving just me and James at home. He was finishing the kitchen flooring; I was scrubbing windows. Out of the blue, Eleanor brought home some bloke. The sort you’d cross the street to avoid—unshaven, crumpled jacket, mud-caked boots. They holed up in her room for hours before slipping out. I, the responsible adult, decided it wasn’t my business—let her live her life, I figured.
The next evening, Dad realised a decent chunk of cash—his car repair fund—had gone missing. Mum, naturally, tore into Eleanor, and like a fool, I mentioned her “guest.” I honestly thought fairness would prevail.
Guess who got the blame? Me.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” Mum shrieked. “I’ve told her a thousand times—no boys in this house! And if she got herself knocked up, would you pay for that too?!”
I tried to explain that at eighteen, she wasn’t my responsibility. Mum only spiralled further, and before I knew it, she’d thrown us out. Literally. Onto the pavement. No explanations. Just screamed:
“You’ve worn out your welcome! Done the repairs? Brilliant. Now bugger off!”
Dad stood in the corner like a ghost until she rounded on him: “If you’d ever lifted a finger around here, I wouldn’t have needed your son-in-law!”
And that was that. We left. James stayed silent. I sobbed.
Later, Mum called, asking us to come back. I didn’t pick up. Haven’t since. Four years now.
We clawed our way back into rented digs, pinching every pound, and finally—we bought our own place. Small, mortgaged to the hilt, but ours. Signing the papers this December.
Oh, and Eleanor? She married that bloke. Yes, the “scruffy layabout.” They’re living with Mum and Dad now. James jokes, “See? Our renovations weren’t wasted.” Not a single nail left for him to hammer there. No one’s booting them out—Mum treats them like royalty.
Sometimes, it stings to the point of tears. We gave everything—time, sweat, sanity—only to be tossed aside for telling the truth. For no longer being “useful.” Now that she’s got an actual problem under her roof? Silence.
But fine. Let her be. We won’t go back. And if trouble comes knocking again—theft, lies, heartache—we won’t lift a finger. We’ve done our bit.
Now, I’ve got my own life. No Mum’s nagging, no tears, no shouting. And you know what? It suits me just fine.
