Simon sat in the kitchen with his wife, Emily. She was bustling about, fiddling with the oven and chattering away without pause. Simon, getting ready for his commute, sipped his coffee, gazed out the window at the rising sun, and tried to pick out the important bits from Emily’s endless stream of words.
“Simon, are you even listening?” Emily’s nails suddenly dug into his shoulder.
“Of course, love!” he replied hastily, trying to gently ease her hand away. Her manicure was always immaculate, after all.
“Then what did I just say?” Her eyes turned sharp and demanding.
Simon sighed.
“You’re talking about selling the house again.”
“Exactly. And why?”
“If we move your mum in with us, things will be easier. Less penny-pinching.”
“Do you realise that place is practically worthless? There’s nothing there for us. No reason for her to stay—her pension barely covers the bills. Why should we foot the bill for her?” Emily’s voice dripped with contempt. At nearly forty, with her sharp understanding of the world, it sounded almost sinister. That low, slightly raspy voice could be hypnotic… Not the sweet, melodious thing it once was, but still.
Simon was past forty himself, but he’d long since fallen into the habit of doing as Emily said. It rarely led to trouble—usually the opposite.
“Where else is she supposed to live?” he muttered weakly.
“With us. We sell the house, clear the debts, and sort our finances. Easier all round, isn’t it?” Emily pressed.
Simon nodded. His engineering job paid well, but extra cash never hurt. Besides, the house was technically in his name. Paying for a place no one lived in wasn’t appealing.
“Right, list it tomorrow. Call your mum and tell her to pack. She’ll move in, and the buyers will come,” Emily flashed a grin—predatory, like she’d cornered her prey.
***
Margaret started her day as usual. The sun had long been up by the time the elderly woman stirred. She stepped into the garden to tend her fruit trees when her old Nokia buzzed in her pocket.
Margaret wanted nothing to do with new technology. Even simple things, like which buttons to press on the washing machine, Simon had to explain more than once. But here, in the countryside, time stood still. No complications, just peace. Beloved magazines, friendly neighbours, a pension at sixty-five. Life had been good.
But when she heard her son’s voice, her heart clenched.
“Hey, Mum. Listen, Emily and I talked—we think it’s time to sell the house.”
“What?!” Margaret staggered to the porch, sinking onto the bench, breath ragged.
“What’s the issue? No point you rotting out here. Come live with us. The money’ll sort our situation.”
“You really want me underfoot?”
“Mum, don’t be daft! You won’t be in the way—we’ll give you your own room, whatever you need. One big family. And your pension will stretch further.”
Margaret bit her lip. Simon kept pushing.
“I’ve listed it already. Start packing—I’ll fetch you and your things tomorrow. Don’t bring too much, no point dragging this out.”
Just like that, a new life loomed. Simon hung up—busy man. Margaret stayed on the bench, lost in thought. They’d agreed he’d handle the bills. Her pension was meagre, but she never imagined he’d use it as leverage. No choice now but to obey.
Groaning, rubbing her aching back, she shuffled inside, thinking of the garden she’d poured her heart into. She’d never see it again.
***
Emily wrinkled her nose.
“Honestly, Margaret, what on earth is this? I told you not to make these stodgy stews. The whole kitchen reeks.”
With sharp, irritated movements, she flung the window open.
Margaret blinked.
“What am I supposed to eat? Your meals aren’t to my taste.”
“Then make something decent. Pasta, proper sauces—things we can all eat. Things guests wouldn’t turn their noses up at.” Emily turned, flashing that same predator’s smile.
“You want me cooking for an army?”
“Just cook for yourself! But make it presentable. Not these murky concoctions that look like leftovers.” She theatrically inhaled the fresh air.
Margaret turned and trudged to her room. This wasn’t a spat—it was a declaration of war.
“If this carries on,” she thought, “I’ll have to act.” Selling the house still felt like madness.
That evening, as they sat over Margaret’s shepherd’s pie, Simon’s phone rang.
“Hello? Ah, yeah—view the house? Weekend’s fine. Ready to buy? Brilliant, but have a look first.”
“Already?!” Margaret gaped.
“Course. Priced it to sell. Needs work anyway—place has been empty ages.”
“And you, Simon?” She fixed him with a hard stare.
“What about Simon?” Emily cut in. “You’ve forgotten how to sort your own problems? Shouldn’t you be thinking about inheritance, Margaret?”
“Got any grandchildren to leave it to?” Margaret shot back.
Emily froze, staring at the wall.
“Exactly why. No room for kids here.”
“This is a three-bed flat!”
“Times change. Kids need space these days.”
“Either way, Mum,” Simon interjected, “you couldn’t manage that house alone. No man around, and I can’t keep driving out.” End of discussion.
***
Margaret never settled into the new routine. First the smells, now the furniture. Emily loved modern decor—glass tables, stone countertops, black tiles. Cold, impersonal, oppressive.
Margaret missed her cheerful wallpaper. Greens, reds, pinks—each room had its own mood. Here, the walls felt like a prison.
Next day, returning from errands, she heard rustling. She’d only been gone an hour. What now?
Dropping bags in the hall, she froze. Piles of her belongings—packed in bin bags.
She burst into her room. Emily was shoving clothes into sacks.
“What are you doing?!”
“Tidying!” Emily snapped. “This place is a tip. I binned a few sacks already.”
“Where?!” Margaret’s stomach dropped.
Her old dresses—the ones she’d never fit again—were gone. Memories, warmth, her whole youth tangled in those fabrics.
“You need order!” Emily barked. “Dust an inch thick on that cupboard.”
“How am I meant to reach it?”
“Use a chair!”
“And if I fall?”
“We’re renovating tomorrow,” Emily said flatly.
“What? Why?”
Emily pointed at the ceiling.
“New fittings. Fancy lights.”
“With what money?”
Emily grabbed a sack and left.
Margaret snapped. “Put it back! Now!”
Emily scoffed, dumped the bag, and stormed out.
That night, Simon faced questions.
“Son, she ‘mistakenly’ binned my clothes?”
“We’ll buy new!”
“With what? She’s planning renovations without asking! You invited me here, and what? I’m a nuisance. My cooking stinks, my telly’s too loud—I’m going deaf! Where are those headphones you promised?”
“We’ll sort it. Emily’s off on holiday soon.”
“What holiday?” Margaret raised her voice.
Emily strode in. “Next week,” she said brightly. “Booked and paid for. Turkey here I come.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped.
“You said money was tight!”
“Ours to spend,” Emily shrugged.
“You promised me a cut!”
“Oh, that. It’s safe—needs withdrawing in person. After my holiday.”
Margaret left without another word. She’d been played. The nitpicking had one goal—to force her out.
That night, she lay awake till dawn, weighing options.
Next morning, as Simon munched takeaway pizza with his coffee, she marched in.
“Simon, I’m leaving. Staying with Martha. Might even find work—she says they’re short-staffed, hiring retirees.”
Simon choked.
“Mum, what?”
“Your Emily’s driving me out! The complaints never end. What’s wrong with my cooking? I used the extractor fan—too loud for her! I can’t live like this.”
“Wait—I didn’t know it was this bad!”
“Too late. I’m packing what’s left. Tell Emily I don’t want the money.”
“But we promised! Let’s talk this through!”
“Talk? Your inaction says it all. She’s got you wrapped round her little finger.”
With that, Margaret left. Packed up and moved to an old friend’s.
Simon stewed. When Emily entered, the row erupted. She refused to return the money, cheered Margaret’s departure, even tried to hug him.
But this time, guilt won.
“Enough! You’ve wrecked Mum’s trust in me—I won’t forgive that. GetSimon picked up the phone, dialed his mother’s number, and whispered, “Mum, I’m coming to get you—let’s go home.”
