My Mother-in-Law Demanded I Call Her Mum, and I Clarified the Difference

Author Emily TaylorReading 14 minViews 18

Hey love, you have to hear what went down at our dinner the other night. My motherinlaw, Emma Thompson, told me she wants me to call her Mum and I had to set her straight.

So, Kate, why are you always saying Emma, Mum, Emma, Mum? It sounds like were at some formal council meeting, not around the family table, she snapped, pushing her tea cup aside. Crumbs from the anniversary cake were still stuck to her lips, and she looked like shed just swallowed a brick.

The room fell dead silent. At the table were Aunt Margaret from Yorkshire, my husband Andrews cousin with her whiny little toddler, and Mrs. Patel, the neighbour wed invited just for a bit of company. Andrew plunged his fork into his Olivier salad like it was the most thrilling thing in the world, pretending he was studying the ingredients. He always does that when a storm is looming he buries his head in the sand and leaves the women to sort out their ladylike affairs.

I set my fork down slowly, dabbed my lips with a napkin and stared at Emma. She sat at the head of the table, upright as a lamppost in her best sequined dress, radiating the expectation that I should bow down.

Emma, I call you by your first name and surname out of respect. Its polite and fits the way we relate to each other, I said, trying to keep my voice even.

What relationship are you talking about? she huffed. Were one family now! I gave you my son, my blood. Im a second mother to you. And you call me you, as if Im a stranger. Thats not how we do things. Look at Val, my sisters daughterinlaw she started calling her motherinlaw Mum at the wedding and theyve been inseparable ever since. And you keep this distance. Its arrogant, Kate.

My biological mum is Vera Anderson. I cant have another mum, biologically or morally. Youre my husbands mum. I respect you, I value you, but I wont call you Mum. Sorry if that hurts you, but Im not a hypocrite, I replied firmly.

Emma clutched her chest dramatically, rolled her eyes and scanned the guests for support.

You heard that? Hypocrite! Am I the one being hypocritical? I bake pies for her, give advice, and she turns her nose up! Andrew, say something! You cant insult your own mother in her own house!

Andrew flushed, swallowed and sputtered, Kate, honestly it would make her happy. Its just a word. Its a tradition, thats all.

I gave him a long, weary look the kind that says Im tired of his mums endless demands, disappointed by his spinelessness, and warning him that Im not giving in this time.

For me its not just a word, Andrew. Mum is someone who carried me, gave birth to me, stayed up with me when I was sick, loves me unconditionally. Emma is a wonderful lady, but she isnt my mum. Lets drop this and not ruin the celebration. Who wants more cake?

The dinner was a disaster. Everyone slipped out early, the tension hanging thick in the air. Emma, escorting them to the hall, whispered loudly to the neighbour that todays daughtersinlaw have lost all sense of gratitude.

Later I was at the sink, scrubbing dishes with a fierce grip. Im thirty, an architect, pretty independent, but around Emma I sometimes feel like a naughty schoolgirl caught out. Shes a master of passive aggression never shouts outright, but her concern cuts like a knife.

The next day I hoped the incident was behind us, but Id only seen the first wave of her siege.

Saturday morning, while Andrew and I were trying to sleep in after a brutal work week, there was a knock at the door persistent, the kind that doesnt let go of the button.

There stood Emma, wheeling a massive trolley bag.

Still asleep? she chirped, rolling in without waiting for an invitation. I was at the market, grabbed some fresh cottage cheese. Thought Id swing by and make some scones for the kids. Youre probably too busy with work and Andrews career to cook, right?

I was still in my pyjamas, hair a mess, and I sighed, Good morning, Emma. Were not hungry and we had plans.

What plans could beat a hot breakfast from mum? she exclaimed, already clanging pots. Andrew! Get up, son! Mums here!

Over the scones honestly the best Ive ever tasted Andrew smiled blissfully while Emma launched round two.

See, Kate? Thats how I care for you. Up at six, trekked to the market, lugged this bag. My back aches, my legs scream, but Im still here. Would a stranger do that? Only a mum. Is that why you find it hard to call me mum? Your tongues stuck?

I set my fork down. Thanks for the breakfast, Emma, but care isnt bought in scones, and Mum isnt a title you earn by delivering cottage cheese.

What else does it take then? she squinted. Being the one who held you in the delivery room? I took Andrew, so were family now. I want a cosy, proper family life. Youre cold as a fish. I even called Vera yesterday, told her how youre behaving.

Why did you call my mum? I asked, tension rising.

To complain about you, hoping shed intervene. She told me, Kate is an adult, she decides for herself. Thats parenting for you all indulgence.

No more complaints to my mum, please, I said icy. She has hypertension; she cant be stressed.

And me? No pressure? My hearts fine, isnt it? Im doing this for you with all my heart!

Andrew rushed in, Mum, dont start. Kate appreciates it, she just needs time to get used to you.

Its been three years already! Emma snapped. Fine, if you dont want a proper relationship, Ill just keep coming, helping, until you realise who really wishes you well.

From that day Emmas visits became regular. Shed pop in to check if Andrew had clean shirts, rearrange pots because thats easier, critique the curtains, the wall colour, even the brand of washing powder, always adding, Mum never gives bad advice.

I tried to be polite but set boundaries where I could. I didnt hand over a spare key (though she begged for one in case of fire), I kept my finances to myself. The tension kept building.

The climax hit in November. I came down with a brutal flu fever near forty, body aches, sheer weakness. Andrew was on a business trip in Manchester and wouldnt be back until Friday.

I was alone, shivering in bed, terrified. I called my own mum, Vera, but she was still in hospital after a hypertensive crisis, so I pretended it was just a cold.

Wednesday afternoon, a key rattled in the hall. Andrew had left a spare for his mum to water the plants if his trip ran long. Id completely forgotten about it.

The hallway burst with the sound of bags and Emmas booming voice: Anyone alive in here? Andrew called, said youre a wreck. Im here to save the day.

I managed to lift my head. Emma dont come in Im contagious

She stormed into the bedroom without shedding her coat, eyes scanning the mess halfempty tea mugs, pill packets, crumpled tissues. The room felt suffocating.

What a scene! Even a lumberjack would be proud of this chaos. You should be sick with style, Kate, she shouted. She flung the window open, icy November air slapping my fevered face.

Please close it Im chilled, I whispered, pulling the blanket tighter.

Fresh air to chase the germs. Ive brought broth. Get up, go to the kitchen. You cant stay in bed forever, she insisted.

I cant stand. My heads spinning.

Dont make excuses. Movement is life. Ive trekked the whole city for you, you know.

She barreled into the kitchen, pots clanging. I shuffled to the bathroom, then back to the kitchen, just hoping for a cup of tea.

Instead, Emma dumped her bags, started inspecting the fridge. Oh dear, a mouse! Sausages, expired yoghurts What did you feed Andrew before you left? Poor lad, hell get gastritis if this continues.

Emma, Im miserable, can I just have some water? I asked, collapsing onto a chair.

Water? Youll have to pour it yourself. Look at your stovetop, grease everywhere. While youre ill Ill do a deep clean cant have guests thinking Im a bad housekeeper, she said, spraying everything with a harsh cleaning fluid. The smell of bleach mixed with my fever, making me want to vomit.

Please, no cleaning. I need peace. Go away, I pleaded.

Thats it! Im a mother, Im here to help! I didnt even check my own blood pressure before I started this, she muttered, arms folded. A little gratitude would be nice.

Thank you, I whispered, but I just need my medicine. Did you get what Andrew asked for?

Oh dear, the shopping list I forgot. But I bought beetroot! Ill make borscht. You can chop the veg, Ill boil the broth, she said, smiling as if shed solved everything.

My temperature was thirtynine, and I stared at her. You want me to chop beetroot at this temperature?

Exactly. Working hands heal the soul, she replied.

Just then my phone rang. It was Vera. Kate, love, how are you? Im on my way up the stairs, cant stay in the hospital with you.

Within five minutes Vera burst in, pale but determined. She rushed to my side, pressed a cool cloth to my forehead, gasped, Youre burning up! We need an ambulance if this gets worse.

She skilfully helped me back to bed, fetched a damp towel, and produced the meds from a bag shed grabbed on the way, along with a thermos of cranberry juice and a jar of chicken broth.

Emma lingered in the doorway, lips pursed. Im actually helping here, doing the cleaning, making borscht, while you

Vera turned to her, voice calm but steeltoned, Emma, look at Kate. She needs rest and quiet, not a cleaning marathon. She needs fluids and sleep, not your beetroot.

Emma sputtered, I was trying to help, like a mum would!

Vera shrugged, A mum would hold her hand, not force her to stand.

I, feeling a little steadier after the fever reducer, sat up on my elbows. Anger that had been building for a month finally found its outlet.

Emma, come here, please, I said loudly.

She raised an eyebrow but stepped in.

Listen up. For six months youve demanded I call you Mum. You manipulate, complain to everyone, and today you proved exactly why Ill never call you that, I said, voice shaking but firm.

Why? I brought groceries she pouted.

Because Mum isnt a grocery list or a cleaning schedule. Look at my real mum she walked out of the hospital just to give me water and a blanket. She never asks me to chop beetroot when Im feverish, never criticises my greasy pan while Im dying. She just loves and cares, no demands, no drama. You came here to assert yourself, to play housekeeper, to poke me with your nose. You forced me to get up, knowing I was sick, because your pride mattered more than my health, I said, feeling Veras hand squeeze mine.

The room fell silent, only Emmas heavy breathing breaking it. She turned pink, then pale. Her confidence cracked.

I I just wanted to cheer you up a bit of a a method, she muttered.

Leave, Emma. Take your beetroot and go. Put the spare key back on the hall table and dont come without an invitation. I respect you as Andrews mother, but in my home and my heart the place of Mum belongs to the woman whos nursing me right now, I said, my voice softening a touch.

Emma stared at Vera, who was gently dabbing my forehead, oblivious to the drama. The love in Veras eyes made Emmas cheeks burn with shame, maybe even a hint of envy. She gathered her things, slipped out, the key clinking on the hall table as she closed the door.

Vera sighed, adjusted the pillow, There, dear. Rest now. Ill stay a bit.

I drifted off, dreaming of my mum carrying me across a wide field, shielding me from the wind.

Andrew returned Friday. The flat smelled of chicken broth and medicine, the house was tidy, and I was slowly getting better. Vera went home after making sure Andrew was back on watch.

That evening, over tea, Andrew asked cautiously, Mum called she was crying. She said I kicked her out, that I called her a stranger. What happened?

I looked at him, calm now. I didnt kick her out, I set things straight. I explained the difference between a mum and a motherinlaw. When I was really ill, your mum wanted me to clean beetroot, while my mum brought medicine. Thats the point.

He sat quietly, swirling his cup. Shes a tricky one, I know. She loves me.

Thats the thing. She loves you, not me. I dont have to love her, just respect her. Weve taken her key, so no more surprise visits. If she wants to come, shell call first, and well keep the call me mum thing closed for good. Ill stick to Emma Thompson.

He pulled me into a hug, Im sorry, Kate. I should have defended you. Youve got a real mum, and Emma can just be the grandmother of any future kids, as long as she stops making us clean potatoes in their teens.

We laughed, finally feeling light.

Six months later, things with Emma are cordial but distant. She only shows up when invited, brings a pie, sits politely, and chats about the weather and her garden.

At a family gathering, Aunt Margaret, still from Yorkshire, teased, Oh Kate, why do you still call your motherinlaw by name and title? Isnt she family?

Emma straightened, looked at me, then at Margaret, and said, Im not claiming anything. Kates wonderful mum is Vera Anderson. Im Emma Thompson. We each have our role, and theres no point mixing them up. Respect is what matters, right, Kat?

I smiled, Exactly, Emma. Absolutely right.

And in that moment, calling my motherinlaw by name and surname felt warmer than any forced Mum ever could, because honesty underpins any relationship. The word Mum is too precious to be tossed around for politeness it should only belong to someone whose love is selfless, not to a trolley full of cottage cheese and a need to control a life.

I Miss Him. I’ve Never Missed Anyone Like This Before, and I Don’t Know Why—Especially Since I Didn’t Always Feel Good with Him and There Were Things I Didn’t Like We Met on Facebook, Started Chatting, and One Day He Invited Me for Coffee. We Went to a Park. That Day, I Was Emotionally Down—Disheartened, and Physically Sore from Pushing Myself at the Gym; My Legs Hurt Awfully. We Talked in the Park—It Was Evening, the Sky Was Clear, and It Was Bitterly Cold. We Spoke About Personal Things, Our Lives, Who We Are. As We Were Leaving, I Hugged Him. A Hug That Lasted Several Minutes. It Felt Like “Home,” Even Though It Came from a Man Who Seemed Cold, Serious, and Distant. In That Hug, I Felt That Deep Down He Wasn’t Really Like That. I Don’t Know If He Felt Awkward—Just Like Me. But You Could Sense He Wasn’t Doing Well and That the Hug Meant Something. We Parted with One More, Shorter Hug. We Kept Chatting Late Into the Night. Days Went By Like This—“Good Morning” from Him, Texts Throughout the Day, Endless Messages. We Started Going Out. We Spoke About Deep Things, Shared Dreams, Imagined Different Futures. He Told Me He Lived with a Mate. He Told Me About His Ex. He Said He Liked Chatting with Girls and Female Friends He’d Dated. Then He Moved Back in with His Parents. We Made Our Relationship Official, and Then He Admitted the Truth: He Had Actually Been Living with His Ex. According to Him, Nothing Was Going on Between Them—Even Before That—but They Worked Together. He Posted a Photo of Them Together. On His Birthday, I’d Planned to Take Him Out to a Beautiful Medieval-Style Restaurant to Surprise Him. But Around Noon, I Got an Instagram Message from a Woman Insulting Me. I Didn’t Respond. I Just Asked Him What Was Going On. He Reminded Me About His Ex—That She Loved Sending People to Harass Others and Send Nasty Messages. I Didn’t Answer Until I Spoke to Him. He Said He’d Sorted It, but the Messages Continued. I Only Responded As Much as Needed. I’m Not a Woman Who Lowers Herself or Responds to Arrogance at Her Level. Then I Blocked. We Got Through It. Moved Forward. Our Relationship Even Grew Stronger. We Shared More. I Was Out of Work, and He Encouraged Me to Find a Job. Sometimes He Helped Out with Expenses, Which Embarrassed Me. I Never Asked—He Did It on His Own. When He Went on Holiday, He Told Me to Stay at His. I Did, but Made the Mistake of Staying Both Weeks. He “Tested” Me—to See What I Was Like at Home. He Spent Loads on Takeaways, Saying Cooking Was a Waste of Time and Ready Food Was Always an Option. The Holiday Ended and a Lot of Money Had Been Spent. I Told Him to Save, but He Didn’t Listen. Then He Told Me I Hadn’t Helped Him Save, That If He Spent Money It Was Because I Let Him—even Though I’d Suggested Cooking and Being Careful with Our Spending. After That, He Told Me He Had Bills to Pay, Which Stressed Him Out—and That Made Me Feel Bad. I Got a Job and Then He Told Me He Would “Test” Me Again. The Test Was to See If I Would Help Pay for Living There and for Everything He’d Spent. He Said It Felt Like He Was Supporting Me. I Didn’t Know What to Say. I Was Still Learning How to Live in a Relationship. He Said Everything Would Change—and It Did. Hardly Any Plans or Meetings. Messages Became Short. He Said He Had to Catch Up Financially, That He Was Now Struggling, That He Couldn’t Even Eat Properly. Everything Started To Fall Apart. One Day, He Told Me I Was “Draining His Wallet,” That I’d Hurt Him Financially—even Though I’d Never Asked for Anything. I Had a Job. Sometimes I Paid, Sometimes He Did. But There Were No More Plans. Everything Was Different. We Decided to End Things. We Broke Up on Good Terms—Thankful for the Good and the Lessons Learned. We Closed the Door with Dignity. Then We Tried Again. We Spoke. But I Didn’t Like Staying at His After Work with No Food. Sometimes He Didn’t Even Invite Me to Eat. I Wondered Whether to Pack Lunch or Eat a Big Breakfast So I Wouldn’t Go Hungry. I Told Him How I Felt, but He Didn’t Say Anything or Offer a Solution. It Made Me Feel Like I Was On My Own. That Killed the Relationship. One Day, While with Him, I Felt Faint on the Train, Almost Passed Out. I Sat on the Floor So I Wouldn’t Collapse. He Didn’t React. That Finally Drove Me Away. I Grew Distant Inside. Deep Down, I Wanted Him, But Knew He Wasn’t the Man I Wanted By My Side—Despite the Dreams and Goals We’d Shared. I Begged Him Many Times Not To Go to Bed Angry. But I Started Falling Asleep Next To Him in Tears. Until One Day, I Decided I Wouldn’t Take It Anymore. I Got Up Early, Packed My Things, and Left. We Talked. I Told Him How I Felt. I Had Given Him a Drawing He Loved, But I Took It Off the Wall and Kept It. I Shouldn’t Have Done That. Something Broke in Me—and in Him. Weeks Later, We Spoke Again. He Told Me That by Taking the Drawing, I Took Away the Happiness He’d Felt With It, and That Something Was Broken Forever. We Closed the Door Again. Sometimes I Sent Him Thank You Messages or Videos, But He Didn’t Reply. It Was All Empty. One Night, Around Midnight, I Received a Message Full of Insults—Saying I Was the Woman Who’d Torn Him from His Family. I Deleted the Chat and Blocked. Then People from the Company He Worked For Started Contacting Me on Social Media. I Knew It Was His Ex or His New Partner. I Didn’t Reply. I Spoke to His Workplace and Set a Boundary—Said I’d Take Legal Action If It Continued. That Stopped It. It Made Me Sad. I Changed. I Realised He Wasn’t the Man I Want. We Split on Good Terms, but Seeing Him Again with Someone Who Had Caused Him So Much Chaos Really Hurt. Sometimes I Miss Him. I Miss Some of the Good Things. But That’s All. One Thing I Know for Sure: With Me, He Felt Calm and Proud. I Don’t Think He’ll Feel That with Her—Or Be the Man He’d Want to Show the World.

He Closed the Door Right in My Face “Mum, I know you don’t love me…” Zoe froze, towel in hand, and turned slowly to face her son. Alex stood in the doorway, sulking, hands stuffed into the pockets of his pyjama bottoms. “What?” Zoe folded the towel. “Why on earth would you think that?” “Gran said so.” Of course—Gran. “And what else did Gran say?” Alex stepped into the kitchen, chin raised stubbornly, his eyes defiant—so much like his father. “She said you left Dad because you didn’t want me to have a proper family. A real one. That you left just to spite me so I wouldn’t be a happy child.” Zoe stared at her son. Nearly ten years old. It had been two years since they started living alone, since Val disappeared from Alex’s life without so much as a call or even a birthday card. Tamara Peterson, ex-mother-in-law extraordinaire, made sure to see Alex every weekend—and drip poison in his ear. “Alex, darling,” Zoe tried to keep her voice even, “you really shouldn’t listen to everything Gran says. She doesn’t know everything.” “She does!” Alex’s voice jumped. “She knows it all! You’re the liar! If you loved me, you would have kept the family together! You wouldn’t have filed for divorce! You wouldn’t have destroyed everything!” Every word was a knife to Zoe’s heart. She saw his trembling lip, his bright eyes. He believed it. God, he really believed it. “Alex—” “Dad would still be with us! We’d be together!” “Your father hasn’t called you once in two years,” Zoe blurted. “Not once, do you hear me?” “That’s because you won’t let him! Gran says you forbid him!” Alex spun and ran out of the kitchen. A second later—slam—the bedroom door shook the house. Zoe stayed by the table—half-folded towels, ticking clock, loud silence. She sat, buried her face in her hands. The tears came hot and furious. Val had cheated, spent two months with some woman from his office. When Zoe found out, he barely bothered to apologise. Shrugged. These things happen. How could she forgive him? How could she live with a man who lied straight to her face? And now, Alex blamed her for everything. And Tamara Peterson—saintly Granny—kept weaving her web. Her precious son did nothing wrong, it was the wife who couldn’t put up with things, who wouldn’t keep the family for the sake of the child. Zoe wiped her face and looked out the window. Her child—nearly ten. He didn’t understand. Perhaps he wouldn’t for a long time. Three days crawled by painfully. Alex was there but distant—even breakfasting, homework, dinner. A shadow behind glass. Zoe asked about school—he muttered, glued to his phone. She called him to dinner—he came, ate in silence. She tried to hug him at bedtime—he wriggled away, muttered “night” and closed his bedroom door. On Friday, Zoe decided: enough. After work, she went shopping. A “Black Forest” gateau, his favourite crisps, a big ham-and-mushroom pizza. Maybe a movie. Maybe they’d talk, like before. She pushed open the flat door, dragged the bags into the kitchen. “Alex! Come see what I’ve brought!” Silence. “Alex?” She went down the hall, opened his door—empty. Bed stripped, books on the desk, but…the rucksack was gone. His coat missing, too. She grabbed her phone and rang him. Long rings, then voicemail. Texted: “Where are you? Call me.” The ticks turned blue—he’d read it. No reply. She called again. Once, twice, five times—declined. “What is going on…” Fingers shook, slipped on the screen. Again and again—ring, ring, ring. Click. “Hello?” “Alex!” Zoe clutched the phone. “Where are you? Are you okay?” “I’m fine.” His voice was calm. Far too calm. “Where are you? Why did you leave?” “I’ve gone to Dad’s. I’m going to live with him.” Zoe stood frozen. “What?!” “Gran said Dad wanted to take me. In court. But you insisted. You made them leave me with you. Well, I don’t want to. I’ll be better off with Dad.” “Alex, wait—” Short beeps. Disconnected. She rang back—declined. Again—now switched off. Chaos. She shoved on her coat, dropped her bag, called a cab. She still knew Val’s address by heart. Twenty minutes in traffic. Twenty minutes chewing her nails and thoughts. Taxis edged into the estate. Zoe thrust a note at the driver and ran. On the bench outside the block sat Alex. His coat thrown open, rucksack at his feet, face wet, red, shoulders trembling. He’d been crying. She rushed over, kneeling on the wet pavement, and grabbed his shoulders. The cold soaked through her jeans—she didn’t care. “Are you okay? Have you eaten? What happened? Why are you crying?” Her hands checked—arms, face—making sure he was in one piece. Cheeks frozen, nose red, eyelashes stuck with tears. Alex met her eyes. Red, swollen, so much pain she could hardly breathe. “Dad chucked me out.” Zoe stiffened. Her hands froze on his shoulders. “What?” “He lives with someone else—there’s a little kid,” Alex sniffed, wiping his face with a sleeve, smearing tears and dirt. “He wouldn’t even let me inside. Told me I shouldn’t have come. To go back to Mum. And he just shut the door. Right in my face.” His voice cracked, and he turned away. Shoulders shaking. Zoe pulled him close, hugged him tightly, buried her face in his hair—smelling of cold air and children’s shampoo. This time he didn’t pull away. For the first time in three days—he clung on, pressed his face into her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she whispered, once the tears eased, “let’s sort this, once and for all.” Fifteen minutes in a taxi to Tamara Peterson’s. Alex silent, staring out at the streetlamps. Zoe held his hand—he didn’t let go. His small, cold hand in hers. The door flew open at once, as if his gran were waiting. Dressing gown, curlers, slippers with bobbles—the picture of domestic bliss. Only her eyes—they darted, wary. “Oh!” Tamara brought her hands to her chest, stepping back. “Has your mother dragged you here? Wants to turn you against your dad? Against me?” Alex stepped forward, across the threshold. Zoe saw his back—thin, tense, so childlike under that soon-too-small coat. “Gran,” Alex raised his head, and Zoe heard something new in his voice—grown up—“you lied to me, didn’t you?” Tamara blinked. For a moment, her mask slipped. “What? Alex dearest, whatever do you mean?” “I went to Dad’s. He turned me away. Why?” Zoe watched her face change—the kindly-grandmother mask slipping, eyes darting between grandson and Zoe. “Alex, darling, it’s your mother’s fault, she—” “You told me that Mum wouldn’t let me and Dad talk. That she wouldn’t let him call me. That he missed me. Waited for me.” Alex’s fists clenched, knuckles white. “So why did he close the door in my face? Why didn’t he even want to see me? Why did he look at me like a stranger?” “He’s busy, it’s a tough time for him…” “Or maybe Mum was telling the truth?” Alex’s voice rose, and Tamara flinched. “That he doesn’t want me? That he never wanted our family? He’s got a new wife now. A little baby. They’re all so happy. Why would he want me? I’m just in the way—someone he couldn’t care less about!” Tamara straightened, chin up, her eyes flashing something fierce, cornered. “She’s put this in your head!” she snapped, jabbing at Zoe. “It’s all your mother’s fault, she destroyed the family, she—” “Enough!” Alex shouted, Zoe jumped. The stairwell echoed his anger. “You’re lying! I’ve had enough of your stories! For two years you told me fairytales about Dad, but he never even called me for my birthday! Never! I’m not coming back here, not ever. Don’t phone me again. If Dad doesn’t want me—then I don’t want him. Or you.” He grabbed Zoe’s hand. “Mum, let’s go.” Tamara stood in the doorway, pale and open-mouthed. For the first time ever, Zoe saw her lost—bereft—without her usual armour of blame and bitterness. “Goodbye,” Zoe said, and closed the door gently behind them. At home, Alex ate two slices of cold pizza and drank three mugs of hot tea with raspberry jam. He sat on the sofa, wrapped in his tartan blanket, subdued, nose still red. Outside, it was pitch black, and the lamplight cast warm shadows across his face. “Mum.” “Yes, love?” “I’m sorry.” Zoe set down her mug, looked at her son—small shoulders, ruffled hair, that stubborn crease between his brows. “You always tried. Did everything for me. Worked so hard, cooked, took care of me. I just listened to Gran. I believed her, not you.” Alex stared at the fringe on the blanket. “That’s not going to happen again. From now on, I’ll think for myself. I’ll trust what I see. Not what people tell me.” Zoe smiled, moved closer, ruffled his hair. He didn’t dodge—leaned into her, just as he did when he was little. The lesson was harsh. Maybe even cruel. But Alex had learned it.