Alice froze when she heard her mother-in-law’s words. Her fingers went slack, and the tray crashed onto the veranda floor with a deafening clatter. Shards of glass scattered everywhere.
George and Margaret Whitaker turned sharply. Fear flashed across his mother’s face before melting into forced concern.
“Darling!” she exclaimed, leaping up. “Did you cut yourself? Let me help!”
“Stay back,” Alice held out a hand. “I heard everything.”
She fixed her burning gaze on her husband. George sat with slumped shoulders, head bowed, his fingers nervously twisting the edge of the tablecloth.
“George,” Alice’s voice was strained. “Have you got something to say?”
“Alice, you misunderstood!” Margaret babbled. “We were only talking—”
“I’m not speaking to you,” Alice snapped. “George?”
A heavy silence settled.
“Son,” Margaret tried again, stepping closer and resting a hand on his shoulder. “You wouldn’t abandon your own mother, would you?”
George slowly lifted his head. His eyes met Alice’s—they were filled with pain and deep shame.
“Mum,” his voice was quiet but firm. “I love you. You’re my mother, and I’ll always care for you.”
Margaret’s face lit with triumph as she shot a smug glance at her daughter-in-law. But George stood and continued:
“But I love Alice more. And I won’t do anything to hurt her.”
Margaret’s smile faltered.
“What are you saying?” she whispered.
“I’m saying you should pack your things and leave,” George said steadily. “And don’t come back until you’ve apologised to Alice and understood that nothing matters more than the family I’ve made.”
“Family?!” Margaret’s eyes flared with anger. “And what am I? The woman who raised you!”
“Mum,” George shook his head. “You tried to make me deceive my own wife and take her home. This isn’t the first time you’ve manipulated me.”
“She’s turned you against me!” Margaret shrieked, jabbing a finger at Alice. “Stolen my son! May you rot for this!”
“Enough,” George raised his voice, and she fell silent. “I won’t hear another word. Either apologise or go. Now.”
Her lips trembled.
“You’d choose her?” she hissed. “Throw your own mother out?”
“You’ve got your own house, Mum,” George said wearily. “And I’ll still support you, same as always. But your presence here isn’t welcome.”
With a choked sob, Margaret stormed inside. The slam of the front door soon followed. Alice and George were left alone on the veranda, surrounded by broken glass.
“Forgive me,” George whispered, stepping toward her. “I shouldn’t have stayed quiet. Shouldn’t have even listened.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Alice asked softly. “You’ve been off for days.”
“She asked me to talk to you about selling the house,” he admitted. “Said she was lonely, that the place was too big for just us. I didn’t know how to bring it up. Then she showed up, pressuring me—said if you refused, we’d have to force the matter… one way or another.”
“You really chose me over her?” Alice turned to face him.
“I love her,” George said simply. “But what she wanted wasn’t love—it was selfishness. I won’t be part of that.”
Alice stepped into his arms and let him hold her.
The next morning, Margaret left without a goodbye. But peace didn’t last—her endless calls began.
“Mum, my decision stands,” George repeated firmly. “I’m not abandoning you. But I won’t abandon Alice either.”
Slowly, the calls stopped. George never wavered. One evening, as they sipped tea on the veranda, he smiled—the first real, open smile in months.
“You know,” he said, looking at Alice, “I think we made it.”
Alice squeezed his hand. Their home was theirs again.
*Some battles leave no winners, only lessons. Loyalty isn’t about choosing one love over another—it’s about standing for what’s right. Even when it breaks your heart.*
