Lovely Lashes and an Empty Home: A Tale of Choosing Wisely
Oh, my dear friends, gather close, for I’ve a story to tell that’ll make even the sparrows fall silent in wonder. As the old saying goes: *”Don’t buy a pig in a poke—lest it bite you.”*
In our little town lived a kind, hardworking woman—Margaret Whitmore. Her hands were never idle: she tended her garden, scrubbed her house till the floors gleamed, and cooked stews so rich, you could stand a spoon upright in the pot. Her son, Thomas, was no slouch either—a lad with golden hands and a heart too soft for his own good. He felt for everyone, but especially for the ladies.
Then one day, he brought home a girl named Emily. Oh, she was a picture—big doe eyes, painted lips, lashes long as broom bristles, nails sharp as rakes but lacking only the gold. A proper doll, she was. But as the wise say, *”You can’t judge a book by its cover.”*
Margaret knew it the moment she laid eyes on her. A woman’s heart is like a guard dog—it sniffs out trouble straight away. She pulled Thomas aside and whispered:
“Son, something’s not right. That one’s got her mind set on money and merriment, mark my words.”
And how right she was. The first thing Emily did was toss a dirty plate into the sink and plop down. Margaret, used to order, said politely:
“Best wash up after yourself.”
Emily didn’t even blink.
“Don’t fancy dirtying my hands.”
Margaret thought she might be joking. But no—she scrubbed that plate till her knuckles ached, and still, the grease clung like sin.
“Son, you’re not thinking of marrying her, are you?” Margaret asked, hope thin in her voice.
Thomas just smiled dreamily.
“I am. I love her!”
Ah, the old truth: *”Love is blind—it’ll make you kiss a toad.”* A few months later, the wedding bells rang. Margaret, though her heart was heavy, handed them the keys to her mother’s flat—let the young ones have their own space.
Time passed, and Margaret decided to pay them a visit. Oh, dear souls… what she found! Dust thick enough to write in, dishes piled high as a hill, socks strewn like mushrooms after rain. Emily lounged on the sofa, filing her nails, sighing:
“I’m *finding myself*.”
Meanwhile, Thomas was buried under three loans. Emily wanted a new car—something flashy, so the world could see she was *somebody*.
“Who’s to pay for it?” Margaret asked.
“Not your concern,” Emily snipped. “A husband provides. *I* stay pretty.”
That’s when Margaret swore: *”Not another penny from me.”*
Months later, Thomas came begging:
“Mum, take out a loan for me.”
She answered coolly:
“No, son. Who made the bed must lie in it.”
He went home and told Emily the car wasn’t happening. Then—oh, the storm that followed! Shrieking, slamming doors fit to shake the neighbours awake. Emily wailed that without that car, her life was *nothing*, till Thomas couldn’t take another second. He threw her out. Soon after, the divorce papers were signed.
So remember this, my dears: *”A house isn’t made of bricks, but of peace.”* What good is a wife who prizes her manicure over her home? Love isn’t just pretty words—it’s tending to each other, working for common good. Better a modest life in harmony than riches drowned in squabbles and strife.
