My mother deliberately drove me out of the apartment where I had a rightful share. That was about three years ago, back in the dreary outskirts of Manchester. Still, I figured keeping my family intact mattered more than clinging to bricks and mortar, so my wife and I slipped away in silence, seeking a life apart.
I’d already fled from under her roof when I was a student. The daily trek from Bolton to Leeds University was pure torment—a soul-crushing slog I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. By some miracle, I managed to snag a spot in the dorms. When folks found out where I was from, they stared at me like I’d lost my mind. But what did they know? For once, I could stroll to lectures without a hitch, free from syncing my life to her whims, finally living on my own terms, damn it!
Every time I dared to grumble, she’d shut me down with the same old line: “I pay for everything you’ve got, so shut your trap and don’t argue!” And I’d just stand there, speechless, with nothing to fire back.
Things actually got better once we weren’t under the same roof. Distance gave us both breathing room, and it suited everyone just fine.
Then I met Sarah, the woman who’d become my wife. We started off renting a cramped flat in Sheffield, but when we decided to tie the knot, I declared we’d move in with my mum. Sarah and I had a plan: split the bills down the middle and save up for a place of our own. Selling or splitting that apartment wasn’t even on the table—why stir up trouble?
At first, Mum seemed fine with it, but then the storm broke loose. It was like she’d made it her mission to drive us out. She’d nitpick every little thing—shoes left by the door, a spoon out of place—just to make it crystal clear we weren’t welcome. She’d spark pointless rows out of thin air, and enduring that daily hell drained every ounce of my will. The tension poisoned everything, and soon Sarah and I were at each other’s throats too.
In the end, she won her twisted little war—we packed up and left. How do you build a family when you’re living on a knife’s edge? Sure, money got tighter, but we traded that for peace, joy, and a life free of constant chaos.
We’d never have scraped together a deposit if Sarah’s parents hadn’t sold their crumbling cottage near York. That’s how we managed to snag a mortgage for a tiny one-bedroom flat in Nottingham.
Life started looking up, but then Mum remembered she had a son named Tom. She began hounding me: “Since you’ve got a stake in this place, cough up half the bills!” All because her pension couldn’t cover the costs, and I was supposed to swoop in like some savior. I wasn’t having it and shot her down hard, threatening to sell my share since I’d never set foot there again.
She unleashed a tirade of insults, screaming at me for a solid five minutes without pause. But I stood my ground, and eventually she realized she couldn’t break me. So she switched tactics, trying to guilt-trip Sarah’s folks instead. What she didn’t see coming was them siding with us, calling her a raving lunatic.
And then the phone rang again:
“Well, aren’t you proud of yourself, Tom?! Some son you are—now I’m stuck living like it’s a bloody hostel with random strangers! Go on, celebrate, you’ve abandoned your own mother in her old age, you hero!”
Truth be told, I’m not exactly thrilled about how it’s turned out. But honestly, I couldn’t care less. She didn’t want us there, so now she’s reaping what she sowed—what am I supposed to do about it? That flat belongs to both of us by rights—not just her, not just me, but us. Let her squirm and figure it out, the old, unhinged hag.
