Oh, my dear grandchildren, listen to your old gran… They say retirement homes are quiet places, but to me, the silence only echoes how loud life used to be. And you know what sticks in my memory the sharpest? Not the holidays, not the gifts, but the foolishness that tears families apart.
I once knew a married couple—Margaret Whitmore and her son, Timothy. They lived peacefully until he brought home a young lass named Felicity. Pretty as a picture, painted up to the nines, nails like talons—but mark my words, she’d no more lift a finger to work or keep house than fly to the moon.
Margaret clenched her jaw the first time they met and said to me,
*”There’s something about that minx I don’t trust.”*
And she was right. When Felicity first washed the dishes, she smeared the grease worse than before. Then she had the cheek to declare,
*”I won’t dirty my hands—such things aren’t for me.”*
Her mother-in-law snapped back,
*”And I won’t clean up after you. This isn’t a hotel!”*
Felicity just shrugged. Well, I thought, that won’t last long. But Timothy dug his heels in—
*”I love her! I’m marrying her!”*
Margaret tried every way to talk sense into him, but it was no use. Two months later, they wed, and within the week, she handed them the keys to her flat.
Her joy didn’t last. One day, she visited and—oh, my dears! The mess would’ve made a dustman faint. Grime on every surface, dishes piled high, clothes strewn about. And there sat Felicity, twirling her hair instead of lifting a duster, saying,
*”I’m finding myself. Work will come when it’s meant to.”*
Margaret snapped,
*”It’s not work that’ll find you—it’ll be the bank when they come for your husband’s debts!”*
Timothy already had two loans and took out a third—for her whims. Then Felicity fancied a car.
*”What for?”* asked Margaret.
*”To drive to interviews—people respect you more if you arrive in a motor!”* she said, chin up.
They squabbled until Margaret wiped the dust off the icebox and said flatly,
*”I know my son. You won’t last here long.”*
Felicity shot back as she left,
*”He loves me!”*
But Margaret had made up her mind—not a penny more for their debts. She wasn’t wrong. A month later, Timothy came begging—not for the car now, but for her to take out a loan in her name.
*”For us, Mum! I’ll pay it back myself!”*
She answered,
*”I know who you promised that car to. But not on my account—not ever.”*
He slunk off, told Felicity there’d be no new motor, and oh, the tantrum she threw! Like the sky had fallen.
That’s when Timothy had enough. He packed her things and showed her the door. Then he filed for divorce.
So you see, my dears—what seems like love forever can vanish like foam in the wind. Because love isn’t a manicure; without work and respect, it cracks quick as ice.
Shall I tell you how they fared afterward? That’s a lesson in itself…
