James sat in the kitchen with his wife, Emily. She bustled about the oven, chatting nonstop while he sipped his coffee, gazing at the rising sun and trying to catch the gist of his beloved’s chatter.
“James, are you even listening?” Emily’s nails suddenly dug into his shoulder.
“Of course, love!” he replied hastily, brushing her manicured fingers away. She always kept them impeccably done.
“Then what did I just say?” Her eyes turned sharp, demanding an answer.
James sighed. “You were talking about selling the house again.”
“Yes. And why?”
“If we bring Mum to live with us, things will be easier. We won’t have to penny-pinch as much.”
“You know there’s nothing out there for us, right? She’s got no reason to stay—her pension barely covers the bills. Why should we pay for it? What’s in it for us?” Emily’s voice dripped with disdain. At nearly forty, with her sharp mind, her words carried a chilling weight. That low, slightly raspy voice could still captivate him, though it was a far cry from the sweet, light tone she’d had in her youth.
James was over forty himself, but he’d grown used to letting Emily call the shots. It rarely led to trouble—usually the opposite.
“Mum has to live somewhere,” he muttered weakly.
“She does. With us. We sell the house, clear our debts, even boost our finances. And it’ll be livelier, won’t it?” Emily pressed.
James nodded. His engineering job paid well, but who wouldn’t want extra cash? Especially since the house was technically his. Paying for a place he didn’t live in felt wasteful.
“Right, then. Post the listing tomorrow, call your mum, tell her to pack up. Once she’s here, buyers will come knocking.” Emily grinned, teeth flashing like a predator spotting prey.
***
Margaret started her day as usual. The sun had long risen by the time the elderly woman woke. She stepped into the garden to tend to her trees when her old Nokia buzzed in her pocket.
She refused to embrace new technology. Even simple things, like learning which buttons to press on the washing machine, had taken James multiple explanations. But here, in the countryside, time stood still. No complications, just peace. Beloved magazines, neighbours, a pension at sixty-five—life had been kind.
Then her son’s voice tightened her chest. “Hi Mum. Listen, Emily and I talked—we’re selling the house.”
“What?!” Margaret staggered to the porch, sinking onto the bench, breath ragged.
“What’s the problem? No point you wasting away in the village. Live with us. The money will sort us out.”
“You want me to move in? Won’t I be in the way?”
“Mum, come on! Of course not. We’ll give you your own room, whatever you need. One big happy family. No more penny-pinching—just perks.”
Margaret bit her lip. But James pressed on. “I’ve listed it already. Pack your things—I’ll fetch you tomorrow. Don’t overdo it; I don’t want this dragging out.”
Just like that, a new life loomed. James hung up abruptly—busy man. Margaret stayed on the bench, lost in thought. They’d agreed he’d cover the bills. Her pension was meagre, but she never expected him to use it as leverage. No choice—she’d obey.
Groaning, rubbing her aching back, she returned inside, mourning the orchard she’d poured her heart into. She’d never see it again.
***
Emily scowled. “Really, Margaret, must you cook those stews? The whole kitchen reeks.” With sharp, irritated movements, she flung the window open.
Margaret froze. “What am I supposed to eat? I’m not used to your meals. I need something hearty.”
“Then make something decent. Pasta, proper sauces—things we can all eat. Something presentable for guests.” Emily turned, that predator’s smile back.
“You expect me to cook for an army?”
“Just yourself, then! But make it smell decent, look tidy—not these sloppy stews of yours.” She inhaled loudly by the window.
Margaret turned, retreating to her room. This was just the beginning.
That evening, as they sat at the table—Margaret having made a lovely casserole—James’s phone rang.
“Yes? Interested in the house? Weekend’s fine. Ready to buy? Brilliant.”
“Already?” Margaret gaped.
“Priced it low. Not trying to fleece anyone—place needs work anyway.” He shrugged.
“And you, James?” Her stare hardened.
“What about him? Can’t solve your own problems?” Emily cut in. “You should worry about legacies, Margaret, not repairs.”
“Got any grandchildren to leave it to?” Margaret shot back.
Emily stiffened.
“Hardly, when we’re squeezed for space.”
“Squeezed? This is a three-bed flat! I raised James in a shared flat! I earned this place—signed it over to you!”
“Times change. Kids need better these days.”
“Doesn’t matter, Mum. You couldn’t manage that house alone. No man around, and I can’t keep visiting.” James ended the discussion.
***
Margaret never adjusted. First the smells, now the furniture. Emily loved modern decor—glass tables, stone countertops, black tiles. Cold, oppressive.
She missed her cheerful wallpaper, room by room a different hue. Here, the walls loomed like a prison.
Next day, shopping list in hand, Margaret returned to rustling bags—but not hers. She froze. Emily was stuffing her clothes into bin bags.
“What are you doing?!”
“Decluttering! This room’s a tip!” She’d already tossed some.
“Where?!”
Margaret’s stomach dropped. Gone were her old dresses—memories she couldn’t wear but cherished.
“Time for order! Dust an inch thick on that wardrobe!”
“How am I meant to reach it?”
“Use a chair!”
“And if I fall?”
“We’re redecorating tomorrow.”
“What? Why?”
Emily pointed at the ceiling. “New fittings. Fancy lighting.”
“With what money?”
Silence. Emily grabbed a bag and left.
Margaret snapped. “Put. It. Back.”
Emily huffed, flung the bag on the bed, and stormed out.
That evening, James faced questions.
“She made a mistake, didn’t want to admit it—mixed things up.”
“Mixed up? Threw out my clothes! What do I wear this summer?”
“We’ll buy new!”
“With what? She’s planning renovations without asking! You invited me here, but I’m a stranger! Criticised for food, the telly’s volume—my hearing’s going! No headphones, no care. You promised me anything, remember? When’s that happening?”
“Soon. Emily’s got holiday plans.”
“What holiday?”
Emily strode in. “Off next week.” She grinned. “Booked, paid for. Just a little break in Spain.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped. “But you said money was tight!”
“Ours to spend,” Emily said coolly.
“You promised me a share!”
“Oh, that. It’s safe—needs withdrawing in person. After my holiday.”
Margaret left. No more words.
That night, she lay awake, options spinning. At breakfast, as James ate takeaway pizza, she marched in.
“James, I’m leaving. Staying with Martha. Might find work there—they’re short-staffed, even hire pensioners.”
He choked. “Mum, what?”
“What? Emily’s driving me out! Nagging over food, the telly—I can’t take it!”
“Wait, why so sudden?” Guilt tinged his voice.
“Too late. I’m packing my scraps before she bins them. Keep your money.”
“We promised—we’ll sort it!”
“Done talking. You let this happen. She treats you like a kid—wake up!”
She left for her old friend’s.
James sat, stunned.
When Emily entered, the fight erupted. She refused to return the money, rejoiced at Margaret’s departure—even tried embracing him.
But this time, guilt won. “Enough! You’ve destroyed Mum’s trust—I won’t forgive this! Get out!”
“James, you’re mad! You’ll crawl back!”
“Take your things. I’m filing for divorce.”
And so it ended. Emily flew to Spain. After the divorce, she vanished. James never asked after her.
He focused on Margaret—visited, begged her return. She wept, refused. But he’ll wait. A year, maybe sooner. He’ll make it right.
