Long Lashes and an Empty Heart: A Tale of Choosing Wisely
Gather round, dear friends, and listen close, for I’ll tell you a story that’ll make even the sparrows hush in wonder. As the old saying goes, “Don’t buy a pig in a poke—or you’ll regret it sorely.”
In our little town lived a hardworking woman—Margaret Whitmore. Her hands were never idle: she tended her garden, kept her cottage spotless, and cooked stews so rich you could stand a spoon upright in the pot. Her son, Thomas, was a good lad—skilled, kind-hearted, and generous to a fault. But he had one weakness—a heart as soft as fresh-baked bread, quick to pity, and quicker still to fall for a pretty face.
Then one day, he brought home a girl—Alice. She was beautiful, like something off a magazine cover: big eyes, painted lips, lashes long as broom bristles, and nails like talons, polished to a shine. A proper doll, she was. But as the wise say, “Fine feathers don’t make fine birds.”
From the first glance, Margaret’s heart sank. A woman’s instinct is sharper than a hound’s nose when it comes to sniffing out trouble. She pulled Thomas aside and whispered,
“Son, I don’t trust her. That one’s got eyes only for money and fun.”
And how right she was. The first thing Alice did was toss a dirty plate into the sink and flop onto the sofa. Margaret, who couldn’t abide mess, gently reminded her,
“Wash up after yourself.”
Alice didn’t even blink.
“Don’t want to ruin my nails.”
Margaret thought she might be joking—until she saw that plate still greasy after a rinse.
“Tom, you’re not thinking of marrying her, are you?” she asked, hopeful.
He just smiled dreamily.
“I am. I love her!”
And so the old proverb proved true: “Love is blind, and lovers cannot see.” A few months later, they wed. Margaret, heavy-hearted, handed them the keys to her late mother’s flat—let the young ones have their own space.
Time passed, and the mother-in-law decided to visit. Oh, the sight that met her eyes! Dust thick enough to write in, dishes piled high in the sink, socks scattered like mushrooms after rain. Alice lounged on the sofa, filing her nails with a pout.
“I’m finding myself,” she sniffed.
Meanwhile, Thomas was buried under three loans. Alice demanded a new car—something flashy, so the world could see she was a lady of means.
“Who’s paying for it?” Margaret asked.
“Not your concern,” Alice snapped. “A husband provides. A wife stays beautiful.”
That’s when Margaret swore, “Not a penny more.”
Months later, Thomas came begging.
“Mum, take out a loan for me.”
She folded her arms.
“No, son. You made your bed—now lie in it.”
He went home and broke the news: no car. And then, dear friends—the storm broke. Shrieking, slamming doors, such a row the neighbours likely crossed themselves. Alice wailed that life wasn’t worth living without that car—until Thomas, pushed past endurance, threw her out. Soon after, the divorce was done.
So remember this, my dears: “It’s not the house with the shiniest roof, but the one with peace inside.” What good’s a wife who guards her manicure more than her home? Love isn’t just sweet words—it’s work, care, and shared purpose. Better a humble hearth in harmony than a palace full of shouting and spite.
