Edward had always been a heavyset man, and oddly enough, he found a kindred spirit in Emily—a cheerful, warm-hearted woman with a touch of naivety who instantly captured his heart. His mother, Margaret Atwood, had initially been thrilled when she learned her son was finally settling down. Deep down, she’d feared he might remain single forever. But her joy faded quickly when the newlyweds arrived with suitcases in hand and moved into her two-bedroom flat in Manchester.
*Well, at least my daughter-in-law is practical,* Margaret had thought, hoping life might ease up. Instead, things spiraled. Edward quit his job to “freelance,” though in reality, he lazed about. Emily wasn’t in a hurry to find work either. Their routine? Eat, sleep, repeat. The fridge door swung open hourly, food vanished at an alarming rate, and Margaret found herself chained to the stove.
“Mum, we’re working on a project—no time to cook,” Edward would say, shovelling shepherd’s pie straight from the dish. Emily would just nod and smile.
Margaret bit her tongue for months—until one sweltering summer afternoon, as she stood sweating over a roast big enough for six, she snapped. She called Edward into the hall.
“Son, don’t take this wrong, but I can’t do this anymore. Emily’s sweet, yes, but she’s too heavy. What happens when she’s pregnant? Who’ll provide for her? Your dad and I aren’t getting any younger. If you’re a man, act like one. Rent a place. Get jobs. Stop mooching off us.”
Edward was stunned. He’d never expected such harshness from his mother. But he didn’t argue. That evening, watching Emily nap, he whispered, “We need to move out.” She understood instantly—no bitterness, only quiet thanks for all Margaret had done.
A month later, they rented a studio flat in Liverpool, found work, scraped by. Money was tight, but they were free. Edward saw his parents less. Resentment festered on both sides.
Then, one evening, Margaret and her husband spotted Emily outside a Tesco. Margaret turned away—too late. Emily rushed toward them.
But before she reached them, a lanky youth lunged, snatching Margaret’s handbag. She screamed. Without hesitation, Emily charged, shoving him hard. The bag dropped—but the blade he’d brandished slashed across her ribs. She crumpled onto the pavement.
Sirens. Hospital. Panic. Emily survived—the wound wasn’t deep, but she’d lost blood. Margaret paced outside the ward, gutted. For the first time, she saw how wrong she’d been about this woman.
A year later, Margaret turned on the telly—and there was Emily, slim, polished, radiant, hosting a new morning show. Edward later explained: a producer had spotted her doing a bride’s makeup at a shoot—a dream she’d chased for years. Together, they’d shed four stone, rented a proper flat, rebuilt their lives.
Eventually, they began visiting again—no grudges, no reproach. Just gratitude.
“Mum,” Edward said once, “without your words, I’d still be leeching off you. Now look at us.”
Margaret nodded, tears welling. In that moment, she understood: sometimes, the hardest words aren’t cruelty—they’re the push we need to change.
