William sat at the kitchen table with his wife, Evelyn. She bustled about the stove, chattering away without pause while he sipped his tea, gazing out at the dawn creeping over the rooftops of their quiet London street. He strained to catch the gist of her endless stream of words.
“William, are you even listening?” Evelyn’s manicured nails suddenly dug into his shoulder.
“Of course, love,” he said hastily, trying to shift away from her grip. Her nails were always impeccably done.
“Then tell me what I just said.” Her eyes turned sharp, cold.
William sighed. “You’re on about selling the house again.”
“Yes. And why shouldn’t I?”
“If we bring your mother to live with us, things will be easier. We won’t have to pinch pennies so much.”
“You do realise that cottage is practically worthless to us, don’t you? There’s nothing useful out there in the countryside. No reason for her to stay. Her pension hardly covers the bills—why should we foot them? For what?” Evelyn’s voice dripped with contempt.
At nearly forty, with her sharp mind and sharper tongue, she sounded almost sinister. That low, slightly raspy voice could be hypnotic. Gone were the sweet, bird-like tones of her youth, but still—William had grown used to yielding to her. It rarely led him astray.
“She has to live somewhere,” he mumbled.
“Yes—with us. We sell the cottage, settle the mortgage, even pad our savings. And it’ll be livelier with her here, won’t it?” Evelyn pressed.
William nodded. His engineering job paid well enough, but extra funds never hurt. Besides, the cottage had been signed over to him years ago, and he’d grown tired of paying for a place he never visited.
“Right, then. Post the listing tomorrow and ring your mother. Tell her to pack—she’ll move in with us while we find a buyer.” Evelyn flashed a smile, teeth bared like a predator closing in.
***
Margaret began her day as she always did. The sun had long since risen by the time the elderly woman stirred. She stepped into her small garden, checking on the apple trees. Then the old Nokia in her pocket buzzed.
She resisted modern gadgets—even the washing machine had been a trial for William to explain. But out here, in the quiet of the countryside, time seemed to stand still. No complications, just the comforting rustle of her magazines, the neighbourly visits, the pension she’d earned at sixty-five. Life had been kind.
Then her son’s voice crackled through the phone, and her chest tightened.
“Morning, Mum. Listen, Evelyn and I have talked it over—we’re selling the cottage.”
“What?” Margaret stumbled to the porch, sinking onto the bench with a wheeze.
“Why the fuss? There’s no point you rotting away out here. You’ll live with us. The money will sort our finances, settle a few debts.”
“You want me under your roof? I won’t be a burden?”
“Mum, don’t be daft! We’ll give you your own room, whatever you need. One big family, just as it should be. No more scrimping on that measly pension. Only good will come of it.”
Margaret chewed her lip nervously, but William pressed on.
“I’ve already listed it. Start packing—I’ll fetch you and your things tomorrow. Don’t overdo it; I’d rather not waste time on multiple trips.”
Just like that, Margaret’s life tilted. William hung up quickly—busy man.
She sat on the bench, staring at the trees she’d nurtured for years. They’d agreed—he’d handle the bills, though her pension was meagre. But she never imagined he’d wield it against her like this, leaving her no choice.
Groaning, she rubbed her aching back and hobbled inside, already mourning the garden she’d lost.
***
Evelyn wrinkled her nose.
“Honestly, Margaret, must you? I’ve told you—no more of those stews. The whole flat reeks.”
With sharp, irritated movements, she wrenched the kitchen window open. Margaret froze.
“What would you have me eat? I’m not used to your flashy meals. I need something hearty.”
“Then cook properly. Pasta, a decent sauce—something presentable. For us, for guests.” Evelyn turned with that predator’s smile.
“You expect me to cook for an army?”
“Cook for yourself if you like! But food should smell pleasant, look tidy—not like your sloppy stews.” Evelyn theatrically inhaled the fresh air.
Margaret turned, retreating to her room. The clash was only beginning.
That evening, as they gathered for Margaret’s shepherd’s pie, William’s phone rang.
“Yes? View the cottage this weekend? Brilliant. Keen to buy? Even better—see it first, of course.”
Margaret gaped. “So soon?”
“Naturally. Priced it low—we’re not out to fleece anyone, and it needs work. Been neglected too long.” William shrugged.
“And you, William?” Her voice hardened.
“What about him?” Evelyn cut in. “Forgotten how to sort your own affairs? You should be thinking of legacies, not repairs.”
“Have I grandchildren to leave one to?” Margaret shot back.
Evelyn stiffened, then muttered, “Precisely why not. We’ve no room for them.”
“This three-bed flat is cramped? I raised William in a shared flat! Earned this place myself before signing it over!”
“Times change. Children need proper care now.”
“Enough.” William sighed. “You couldn’t manage alone out there, Mum.”
***
Margaret never adjusted. First the smells, now the furniture—all sleek glass and cold stone. A stark contrast to her floral walls, the warmth of her cottage.
Returning from errands one day, she froze. Rustling filled the flat.
Bags. Her bags.
She hurried in—Evelyn was packing her clothes.
“What are you doing?”
“Tidying! This mess is unbearable!” Evelyn snapped. “I’ve tossed a few rags already.”
“Where?” Margaret’s stomach dropped.
Her old dresses—the ones she’d never fit again but cherished—were gone. Memories, warmth, all discarded.
“Sort your life out!” Evelyn snapped. “That wardrobe’s caked in dust!”
“How am I to reach it?”
“Use a stool!”
“And if I fall?”
Evelyn pointed at the ceiling. “We’re installing new panelling. And a proper chandelier.”
“With what money?”
Silence. Evelyn grabbed a bag and walked out.
Margaret’s temper flared. “Put. It. Down.”
Evelyn scoffed, tossed the bag onto the bed, and left.
That night, William faced questions.
“She made a mistake, didn’t want to admit it.”
“Mistake? My summer clothes—gone!”
“We’ll buy new!”
“With what? She’s planning renovations without consulting me! You brought me here, and for what? I’m unwanted. Scolded for cooking, for the telly’s volume—my hearing’s going! You promised comforts, William.”
“Soon. Evelyn’s off to Spain next week.”
“What holiday?” Margaret’s voice rose.
Evelyn sauntered in. “All booked. Our money—we spend it as we please.”
“You said funds were tight!”
“Ours to manage,” Evelyn said coolly.
“You promised me a share!”
“It’s in the account. We’ll sort it after my trip.”
Margaret left without another word.
That night, she lay awake, weighing choices. At breakfast, as William ate takeaway pizza, she stepped in.
“William, I’m leaving. I’ll stay with Martha—maybe find work. They’re hiring even retirees these days.”
He choked. “Mum, what?”
“Your wife’s driving me out. My cooking, the telly—nothing pleases her. I won’t live like this.”
“Wait—I didn’t know it was this bad.”
“No? Well, it’s too late. I’ll take what’s left before she trashes it. Keep your money.”
“We promised—just wait!”
“No. You stood by and let her win. She’s twisted you round her finger.”
She packed and left for Manchester.
William, guilt-stricken, tried to reconcile. She wept but refused. Still, he clung to hope—forgiveness might come. In time.
As for Evelyn? Her victory was short-lived.
“Enough!” William snapped when she gloated about Margaret’s departure. “You’ve destroyed her trust in me. Get out.”
“Have you lost your mind? You’ll come crawling back!”
“Take only what’s yours. I’m filing for divorce.”
And so it ended. Evelyn flew to Spain. After the divorce, she vanished.
William didn’t ask after his mother’s whereabouts, ignored calls. But he visited, pleaded. She cried but held firm.
Still, he waits. A year,Margaret never returned to London, but in time she wrote to William—a brief letter, forgiving but firm, and though he kept it folded in his wallet for years, he never again asked her to come back.
