She promised love, but all he wanted was the flat: My mother’s story of falling for the wrong man
My mother has always had a heart of gold. She dedicated her whole life to me and my sister. She worked as a schoolteacher and tutored in the evenings to make sure we never went without. We lost our father early—he left when I was just six, and my sister was only three. Mum carried the weight of everything alone, never complaining, never shedding a tear—she just kept going, doing her best.
We grew up in our grandmother’s flat, which Mum inherited. Life was modest, but full of warmth. After school, my sister and I went to university, got married, had children. We often visited Mum, who happily doted on her grandchildren, baked their favourite treats, and laughed with us. We thought she was content—that our love, our hugs, our phone calls were enough. But we were wrong.
That year, my sister and I decided to surprise her for her birthday. We told her we couldn’t make it—work was too busy. Meanwhile, we were already on our way with balloons, flowers, and a cake. When she opened the door, there wasn’t joy in her eyes, just bewilderment. She hesitated, mumbled something about a student coming for a lesson. We exchanged glances. Then we stepped inside.
A man was sitting at the table. In just his boxers. Cigarette between his teeth, beer in hand. And yes—it was the “student.” Only he wasn’t a student at all. He was middle-aged, balding, far from school age. We were stunned but stayed quiet. The moment he saw us, he jumped up, muttered something about an emergency at work, and bolted.
Mum, though, was furious. She was hurt we’d shown up unannounced. For six months after, she cut us off—didn’t answer calls, ignored messages. I waited, hoping she’d calm down. Then I went alone to mend things, to tell her we supported her finding love.
He opened the door. The same man. Straight away, he barked, “She’s not home. And don’t come back.” I tried to explain, but he… shoved me. I fell, hit my head. The diagnosis—concussion. When my husband found out, he rushed to Mum’s, but instead of support, he got threats and accusations—how I’d attacked her man, caused a scene. And she took his side. The side of the man who’d laid hands on me.
We tried to track him down, but he’d vanished. A few weeks later, one of Mum’s students messaged me—desperate for money, in dire straits. I was shocked. Mum wasn’t responding. I warned all our relatives—don’t send her a penny, she’s fine. Though I had no clue if she really was.
Nearly a year passed. Then—a call. Mum. Crying. Voice shaking. She told me everything.
Turns out, her “gentleman caller” had been in cahoots with his real girlfriend all along. They’d planned to con her out of her flat. He’d been poisoning her against us. Mum nearly signed the place over to him—until she accidentally saw his messages with the other woman. She threw him out. Just like that. Left alone, shattered. Only then did she remember us.
My husband and I went to her that same day. Held her. Let her cry. She begged forgiveness. We forgave. Because she’s still our mum. A fragile woman, worn down by loneliness, who only wanted love. And got betrayal instead.
Now she’s back with us. We’re here. She plays with the grandkids, bakes pies again. And sometimes, she glances out the window—like she’s checking. Making sure he’s not coming back. And we pray he never does.
