**Monday, 15th March**
I was never wealthy—no designer clothes, no flashy cars. I grew up in a working-class family in Manchester. Dad passed when I was just a lad, so Mum raised me on her own. She worked the stalls at the market by day and scrubbed floors at the local Tesco by night. Every penny went to food, bills, and—most of all—my education. She dreamed of a better life for me. One without struggle.
At uni, I fell hard. Hopelessly. Recklessly. Her name was Poppy. The belle of the campus—tall, striking, with a voice that could knock a bloke off his feet. She even won “Miss University” that year. Never thought she’d glance my way, but during an economics exam, she sat next to me. Asked for help. I obliged. Then again. And again. Soon, I was writing essays for her, cramming for tests. Then she asked me to the cinema—said it was a thank-you. I couldn’t believe my luck.
A year later, I proposed. She said yes. I thought that was the pinnacle of happiness. But even then, the cracks showed. Her parents were icy, bluntly stating she could’ve done better. I bit my tongue. Love isn’t about money, right?
After the wedding, we had nowhere to live. So my mum—bless her—gave us the flat she’d inherited from her aunt. She moved back to her childhood village, saying, “I’m nearly sixty. The quiet will do me good. You start your life here.”
Poppy wasn’t thrilled with the flat, but she took it. Her parents gifted her a brand-new Range Rover—*her* car, as she often reminded me. When I once asked for a lift to visit Mum (just 20 miles away), she snapped, “What am I, your chauffeur? Take the train. I’m not driving to the middle of nowhere.”
So I went alone. Every week, without fail. Brought groceries, medicine, fixed things. Mum never asked. But I knew. Her pension barely covered the basics.
Meanwhile, Poppy wanted for nothing. Shopping sprees, nights out with her mates—no problem. But if I suggested visiting my cousins or Mum’s friends? Meltdown. If I pushed it, I’d sleep on the floor. No discussion.
Then she started accusing me of “wasting money” on Mum. “Did you marry me or your mother? Stop funding her! She’s old—let her sit quiet!” she hissed over dinner one night.
I barely recognised her. Where was the girl who’d laughed over coffee between lectures? Now, all I saw was a woman who tallied every kindness like a debt.
When I explained Mum needed medicine, Poppy stood and said, “Choose: me or her. Walk away, and I won’t look back.”
I said nothing. That night, I didn’t sleep. The next morning, after dropping off Mum’s shopping, I sat on a bench and cried for the first time in years. That’s when I decided. No man should have to choose between his wife and his mother. Because if she makes you—she’s already lost you.
I filed for divorce. No shouting, no scenes. Just packed my things and left. Back to the flat Mum gave us for “a fresh start.” Poppy retreated to her parents’ place—still had her car, her friends, her parties.
And me? I’ve got Mum. Warmth. Peace. No regrets. I turned a blind eye too long. Now? Not a second more with someone who resents love for family.
Sometimes you lose to find what truly matters.
