A dazzling sunbeam slipped through the curtains, illuminating the tense faces gathered around the dinner table, but even its warmth couldn’t thaw the frost hanging in the air of the spacious living room.
“We’d like to stay here for a couple of years,” Thomas said firmly, fighting to keep his voice steady. “It’ll help us save up for our own place.”
Eleanor, sitting beside him, fiddled nervously with the edge of the tablecloth. Across from them, his mother, Elizabeth, froze mid-slice, as if the bread she was cutting was actually the very idea itself. His father, Geoffrey, sipped his tea thoughtfully, avoiding eye contact.
“Stay here?” Elizabeth set the knife down slowly. “With… *her*?”
“Yes, Mum. With my *wife*,” Thomas emphasised the last word. “We’re tired of renting. Just until we’ve saved enough for a mortgage.”
“We’ve got the space,” Geoffrey piped up, setting his cup aside. “Two rooms sitting empty. Why not help the kids out?”
Elizabeth shot him a look that could curdle milk. “Did anyone ask *me*? Am I meant to tolerate some stranger in my own home?”
“Ellie isn’t a stranger,” Thomas felt his temper rising. “She’s my family.”
“*Family!*” His mother scoffed. “It’s a phase, Thomas. I see right through her. You think she loves you? She just wants this flat, your money, your share!”
Thomas clenched his fists. This argument was old hat. From the moment he’d introduced Eleanor, his mother had despised her—no reason, no explanation. Maybe because Ellie had disrupted the delicate balance where Thomas had always been under Elizabeth’s thumb.
“Mum,” he said, forcing calm, “a third of this flat is legally mine. Gran’s will. I’ve every right to live here.”
Elizabeth paled. “Are you *threatening* me? Your own mother? *She’s* put you up to this, hasn’t she? Taught you to blackmail me?”
“Enough, Liz,” Geoffrey cut in, raising his voice. “Thomas is right. It’s his home too.”
“Then let him live in his *third*!” Elizabeth shot up. “In the cupboard! Or on the balcony!”
Thomas stood slowly, patience snapping. “Fine. If you won’t play nice, I’ll sell my share. And trust me, I’ll find neighbours who’ll make you *miss* us. Ever fancied living next to drum enthusiasts or exotic pet collectors?”
“You wouldn’t *dare*,” Elizabeth hissed.
“You’ve got a week to decide,” Thomas headed for the door. “After that, I call the estate agent.”
In the hallway, he stopped, willing his hands to stop shaking. He’d never challenged his mother like this before. But for Ellie, for their future—he’d do anything.
Back in their rented flat, Eleanor took one look at his face and knew. “How’d it go?”
“As expected,” he sighed, sinking onto the sofa. “Dad’s on board, Mum’s against. But I made it clear—we live there, or I sell my share.”
Eleanor frowned. “Thomas, maybe we shouldn’t…”
“No,” he said flatly. “I won’t back down. She has to accept you.”
A week passed with silence. On the eighth day, Thomas rang the estate agent. “I want to sell my third of the flat. Fast and cheap.”
Three days later, the first “buyers” showed up—two blokes with tattoos and the lingering scent of last night’s pub crawl. Geoffrey greeted them cheerfully. “Come in, have a look! Prime central London, lovely space!”
“Where’s our third, then?” one grunted, eyeing the living room. “Sleep in the bathtub?”
“Legal grey area,” Geoffrey winked. “Technically, the whole flat’s shared.”
Elizabeth stormed in. “Who on earth—?”
“Potential buyers, love,” Geoffrey said mildly. “Interested in Thomas’s share.”
“Out!” she shrieked. “No one’s invading my home!”
The next visitors were worse—a couple raving about their tropical beetle collection. Elizabeth turned sheet-white at the mention of “harmless palm-sized spiders.” The third lot? A self-proclaimed nocturnal drumming meditation guru.
By day four, Elizabeth cracked and called Thomas. “You’re really selling to these *lunatics*?”
“I warned you,” he said coldly. “You had your chance.”
“Fine,” she gritted out. “Bring your Eleanor. But there will be *rules*!”
That evening, Thomas went alone to negotiate. Ellie stayed home—no need for her to endure more humiliation.
“Name your terms,” he said, holding his mother’s gaze.
“None of her things in the living room or kitchen,” Elizabeth began. “If she cooks, she cleans. And absolutely *no* guests!”
“Now mine,” Thomas crossed his arms. “We take the bedroom and study. Equal use of the flat. And—*crucially*—you stop insulting Ellie. One snide remark, and I sell. No warnings.”
Elizabeth’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Fine. But it’s temporary.”
A week later, they moved in, bringing only essentials. Geoffrey helped with boxes. “Here’s your room. Settle in.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Thomas hugged him.
Elizabeth hovered, arms crossed. Ellie tried politeness. “Hello, Elizabeth. Thank you for having us.”
“Don’t mention it,” came the icy reply before she vanished into the kitchen.
The silent war began immediately. Elizabeth avoided speaking to Ellie directly, relaying complaints through Thomas or Geoffrey. She hid cutlery, vacuumed at dawn when they slept, and “inspected” Ellie’s cooking like a drill sergeant.
Ellie bit her tongue—cleaning, cooking, doing laundry, hoping for a shred of kindness. Then she found her notebook torn up in the bin. Her face cream? Squeezed into the sink.
“She *hates* me,” Ellie admitted after two months. “Maybe we should leave.”
“No,” Thomas said. “We’re not letting her win. I’ll talk to her.”
The conversation was brutal. He reminded his mother about selling his share. Elizabeth exploded. “You’ve changed, Thomas! Blackmailing me over *her*!”
“It’s not blackmail,” he said firmly. “It’s boundaries. Stop tormenting Ellie, or I follow through.”
Elizabeth backed off—slightly. Instead, she poisoned the neighbourhood against Ellie, spinning tales of laziness and gold-digging. The gossip stung, but Ellie endured.
Unexpectedly, Geoffrey became her ally. He admired her patience and sincerity, chatting about travels and old films. “Don’t take it to heart,” he said once. “Liz fears you’re stealing her son.”
“I’m not *stealing* him,” Ellie whispered. “I just love him.”
“She’ll come round,” he smiled. “Give her time.”
But time didn’t help. Elizabeth’s petty sabotage continued—ruined groceries, mysteriously dead Wi-Fi during Ellie’s remote work. Ellie bore it, clinging to their savings goal.
Then, eighteen months in, Thomas burst home with news. “We’ve done it! Two-bed in the new development, mortgage approved. Moving next month!”
Geoffrey raised a toast at dinner. “To your new home!”
Elizabeth stayed silent, her glare speaking volumes.
“It’s our money,” Thomas added. “Ellie’s worked just as hard.”
“So you *used* us,” Elizabeth spat. “Lived here, saved up, now you’re off.”
“Mum,” Thomas met her eyes, “we lived in *my* share. Ellie cleaned, cooked, put up with your nonsense. Who used who?”
“She’s torn us apart!” Elizabeth cried. “Turned you against me, wormed her way in!”
Ellie stood, done staying quiet. “I never wanted a fight. I just loved your son. You never gave me a chance.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth—
“That’s it,” Thomas cut in. “We’re leaving. Not just this table, but your life. I won’t listen to you belittle my wife.”
“Thomas—” Elizabeth started, but he was already guiding Ellie out.
“We’re gone in three weeks. And I won’t be back until you respect our family.”
Geoffrey walked them out. “I’ll talk to her. She’ll cool down.”
Thomas just shook his head.
Moving day felt like freedom. The new flat, though small, was *theirs*. Unpacking that evening, Ellie paused. “Thomas… what if she never changes?”
He hugged her. “Then that’s her choice. We’re building our life now.”
A month later, the doorbell rang. Geoffrey stood there with a small box. “From Liz,” he said softly. Inside was an old family photo—Thomas as a boy—and a note:
*”I was wrong. Invite us when you’re ready.”*
Ellie looked at Thomas. He stared at theOutside, the first daffodils of spring nodded in the breeze, and though the future was uncertain, the air smelled faintly of forgiveness—or at least the quiet hope of it.
