Gavin sat in the kitchen with his wife, Eleanor. She bustled about the oven, chattering away without pause, while he sipped his coffee, staring at the creeping dawn outside, half-listening to her endless stream of words.
“Gav, are you even paying attention?” Eleanor’s nails dug sharply into his shoulder.
“Of course, love,” he muttered, gently prying her fingers away—her manicure was always immaculate, after all.
“Then what did I just say?” Her eyes turned icy, demanding. Gavin sighed.
“You’re going on about selling the house again.”
“Yes. And why?”
“If we move Mum in with us, it’ll be easier. Less penny-pinching.”
“You know that place is practically worthless, right? There’s nothing useful left there for us. No reason for her to stay—her pension barely covers the bills. Why should *we* foot them? For what?” Eleanor’s voice dripped with scorn.
At nearly forty, sharp-eyed and unyielding, she had a way of making even the simplest demand sound sinister. That low, rasping voice of hers could be almost hypnotic—nothing like the sweet, light lilt she’d had years ago. But still.
Gavin was in his forties too, long accustomed to doing as Eleanor said. It rarely led to trouble—if anything, things usually turned out better.
“Mum has to live *somewhere*,” he offered weakly.
“Exactly—with *us*. We’ll sell the house. Clear the debts, maybe even get ahead. And it’ll be cosier, won’t it?” Eleanor pressed.
Gavin nodded. His job as a construction engineer paid well enough, but extra cash never hurt—especially since the house was technically his, and paying for a place they didn’t live in rankled.
“Right, so list it tomorrow. Call your mum, tell her to pack up. She’ll move in, and the buyers will come,” Eleanor flashed a wolfish grin, teeth glinting.
***
Margaret started her day as usual—the sun was already high when the elderly woman finally stirred. She stepped into the garden to check her fruit trees when her old Nokia buzzed in her pocket.
She had no patience for new gadgets. Even basic things, like remembering which buttons to press on the washing machine, had taken Gavin several attempts to explain.
But here, in the countryside, time stood still. No complications, no confusion—just her beloved magazines, the neighbours, and her modest pension. At sixty-five, life had settled into a quiet rhythm.
Then Gavin’s voice crackled through the phone, and her chest tightened.
“Morning, Mum. Listen, El 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 rotting away out here. Move in with us—we’ll sort our finances, you’ll have less to worry about.”
“You really want me underfoot?”
“Mum, don’t be daft! We’ll give you your own room, whatever you need. Proper family living. No more scrimping.”
Margaret chewed her lip as Gavin ploughed on.
“I’ve already listed it. Start packing—I’ll come for you and your things tomorrow.”
Just like that, her life was upended. Gavin hung up—busy man, always.
Margaret sat on the bench, numb. They’d agreed on the bills ages ago. Yes, her pension was meagre—but how could she have known he’d use it against her?
No choice. She’d obey.
Groaning, rubbing her aching back, she shuffled inside, thinking of the garden she’d poured years into. She’d never see it again.
***
Eleanor wrinkled her nose.
“Honestly, Margaret, what *is* this? I told you not to make stews like this. The whole kitchen stinks.”
Her movements sharp with irritation, Eleanor flung open the window. Margaret froze.
“How else am I supposed to eat? Your meals aren’t exactly to my taste.”
“Then make something *decent*. Pasta, proper sauces—things *we* can eat too. Or guests, God forbid.” Eleanor turned with that predator’s smile.
“You expect me to cook for an army?”
“Hardly. Just don’t make it look like slop. A bit of care, that’s all.” She inhaled loudly by the window, making a show of it.
Margaret turned and retreated to her room, leaving the hostile daughter-in-law behind. The conflict had begun.
*If this keeps up, I’ll have to do something.*
Selling the house still felt like madness.
That evening, as they ate the casserole Margaret had prepared, Gavin answered a call, grinning.
“Yeah? This weekend? Brilliant.” He winked at Eleanor. “Buyers already.”
Margaret gaped.
“*That* fast?”
“Priced to sell. Needs work anyway—place has been empty.”
“And you, Gav?” She eyed her son.
“What about him?” Eleanor cut in. “You’re the one who can’t manage. Shouldn’t you be thinking about your will, not repairs?”
“Have I got grandchildren to leave it to?” Margaret shot back.
Eleanor stiffened, staring at the wall.
“Exactly. We can’t afford kids in this shoebox.”
“Three bedrooms is a *shoebox*? I raised Gavin in a *cupboard*!” Margaret snapped. “I earned this flat myself—and handed it to *you*!”
“Times change. Kids need *proper* homes now,” Eleanor snipped.
“It doesn’t matter, Mum,” Gavin cut in. “You couldn’t stay there alone anyway.”
The discussion ended there.
***
Margaret never adjusted. First the smells, now the furniture—everything clashed.
Eleanor loved modern décor. Glass tables, stone countertops, black tiles. Cold, sterile, oppressive.
Margaret missed her old wallpaper—bright greens, warm reds. Each room had been alive. Here, the walls loomed like a prison.
The next day, returning from the shops, she heard rustling. She’d only been gone an hour.
Bags abandoned in the hall, she froze in the living room. *More* bags—hers. Rushing to her room, she found Eleanor stuffing her clothes into bin liners.
“What are you *doing*?”
“Clearing out this *mess*!” Eleanor hissed. “You live like a hoarder!”
“Where are my things?” Margaret swayed, heart pounding.
Her old dresses—the ones she’d never fit into again—were gone. Memories.
“You need to *tidy up*!” Eleanor barked. “Dust an inch thick up there—”
“How am I meant to reach it?”
“Use a *chair*!”
“And if I fall?”
“We’re renovating tomorrow,” Eleanor snapped.
“Why?”
Eleanor jabbed a finger at the ceiling. “New lighting. A proper chandelier.”
“With what money?”
Silence. Eleanor grabbed a bag and stalked out.
Margaret snapped.
“Put. It. *Back*.”
Eleanor huffed, dropped the bag on the bed, and left.
That night, Gavin faced the storm.
“She didn’t mean it, Mum. Just got confused.”
“*Confused*? She binned my clothes!”
“We’ll buy new!”
“You’ll buy *nothing*! She’s ripping up my home, and you let her!” Margaret’s voice cracked. “I’m a stranger here. My food’s too loud, my telly’s too loud—I can’t *hear* anymore! You promised me *anything*, and I’ve got *nothing*!”
“Soon, Mum. El’s going on holiday—”
“What holiday?” Margaret barked.
Eleanor strolled in.
“Next week,” she chirped. “Turkey. All booked.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped.
“I thought we were *broke*?”
“Our money, our choice,” Eleanor said coolly.
“You *promised* me my share!”
“Oh, *that*. It’s safe—just needs withdrawing. I’ll sort it after my break.”
Margaret left without another word.
That night, she lay awake till dawn, options racing.
At breakfast, as Gavin munched takeaway pizza, she marched in.
“I’m leaving. Moving in with Doris. Might even find work—they’re hiring retirees these days.”
Gavin choked.
“Mum, *what*?”
“Your wife’s driving me out! The food, the noise—I can’t *breathe* here!”
“Hold on—I didn’t know it was this bad—”
“Too late. I’m packing what’s left. Tell Eleanor I don’t want the money.”
“We *promised*! Just wait—”
“*You* waited too long.” Margaret turned. “She’s got you wrapped round her finger. Open your *eyes*.”
She left that day, moving in with her old friend.
Gavin sat in silence, guilt crushing him.
When Eleanor swAs the months passed, Gavin found himself standing alone in his mother’s empty house, the walls whispering of all the things he should have said and done, while the autumn leaves swirled unseen in the garden she had loved so dearly.
