The Mysterious Sack: A Tale of Reckoning
In the coastal town of Whitcliffe, where the morning mist settled on rooftops and the scent of pine mingled with salt air, Edward struggled to drag a large white sack to the doorstep before exhaling heavily.
“Bloody heavy, this!” he muttered, glancing at his burden.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he punched in the flat code.
“Edward, is that you?” came his mother-in-law’s voice through the intercom. With a grunt, he hauled the sack toward the lift.
Once in the kitchen, he set it down by the table.
“Edward, what on earth is that?” gasped Margaret Whitmore, eyeing her son-in-law with suspicion.
Edward smirked.
“You’ll see!” he declared, emptying the sack onto the table.
“Good heavens, why so much?” Margaret’s eyes widened at the sight.
Before Edward came along, Margaret prided herself on thrift. Her daughter, Eleanor, had suffered for it.
“Put that back!” Margaret would command in the shops. “Take the cheaper one! Buy in bulk!”
“But it’s inferior,” Eleanor would argue.
“Nonsense! Just less advertised. Detergent is detergent!”
Eleanor would mutter about false economy but obey. If she tolerated this with cleaning supplies, clothing was another matter.
“Mum, how does this look?” Eleanor would model a new skirt.
“Another one? What’s the price?” Margaret would frown.
“What does it matter? It fits perfectly!”
“Price always matters!” Margaret would retort, arms crossed.
Eleanor would name the sum, bracing for the storm.
“Outrageous! That’s daylight robbery!”
“Mum, prices aren’t what they used to be! I deserve something nice!”
“Nice doesn’t mean expensive!”
Arguments about fabric quality or tailoring fell on deaf ears.
“Why must you pinch every penny? We’re not paupers!”
“Exactly! Because I save. You take after your father—a spendthrift!”
Eleanor would fall silent, recalling her parents’ divorce—screaming matches, asset splits, alimony battles. Frugality had curdled into obsession.
At university, Eleanor never invited friends over. Margaret saw guests as wasteful.
“Pointless gatherings! Eating, drinking, chattering—then the host cleans up and restocks!”
Eleanor gave up explaining. After graduating, she found work and met Edward.
“Mum won’t approve,” she knew instantly.
Edward lacked everything Margaret valued: no property, no wealthy family, no inheritance. Just an office worker with ambition—and ambition, Margaret believed, couldn’t be touched. Eleanor delayed introductions, but when Edward proposed, she relented.
“Edward, my mother’s… particular. Frugal to a fault.”
“That’s commendable.”
“You don’t understand. She’s miserly. She’ll count every bite you take. Can you bear it? After the wedding, we’ll rent our own place.”
“Nonsense!” Edward grinned. “We’ll manage. Better to live with her—saves rent. My parents’ place is cramped. Your call!”
Eleanor hesitated. “He’s in for a shock. But we can try.”
“Alright, we’ll risk it.”
“Underestimating me?” he winked. The wedding was modest, pleasing Margaret.
“Sensible! No need for extravagance.” Learning the newlyweds would move in, she frowned but saw logic.
“Very well. Save for a home. But my rules stand!”
“Absolutely!” Edward agreed. “You’re right—young people squander money, then complain. I admire your prudence!” Margaret flushed with pride.
“What a clever lad! Poor but wise. He’ll go far.”
Edward swiftly earned her trust.
“Let me handle groceries and household goods. I know the best deals.”
“Edward, you’re a treasure!”
Eleanor blinked as he winked at her. Soon, cupboards overflowed with stockpiles. Margaret rejoiced—briefly.
“No, no, that’s too much!” Edward snatched the detergent scoop from her, halving the portion. “Just enough!”
Margaret stared.
“But it won’t clean properly—”
“If it lathers, it’s clean!”
She paused. “Perhaps he’s right?”
Later, Edward asked Eleanor, “What’s her weakness?”
“Ah! Mum’s obsessed with tableware. Never buys second-hand—only pristine sets.”
Edward grinned. “Extravagance. We’ll fix that.”
“Margaret, look at this bargain dinner set I found online!”
She recoiled.
“Online? Used?”
“So what? A scrub, and it’s new!”
“Absolutely not! Who knows whose mouth touched it?”
“I won’t eat from this. Buy new if you must!”
“But thrift?”
“Some exceptions matter.”
“Fine. Just remember—exceptions may apply to us too.”
Margaret sensed a trap but couldn’t place it.
“First round to us,” Edward whispered that night.
“Did you just… soften her?”
“Slightly. The game’s afoot.”
The next move came from his mate Thomas, whose late mother’s flat needed clearing.
“Edward, you won’t believe her hoard—soap, detergent, linens, clothes, all unused! And she lived like a church mouse. Take what you want—it’s junk to me.”
Edward gaped at the piles.
“Blimey! Should’ve visited more.”
That evening, he hauled a bulging sack home.
“Bloody heavy!”
“Edward, is that you?” Margaret called.
He dumped the sack in the kitchen.
“What in heaven’s name—?”
“Wait!” He emptied bars of soap onto the table.
“Why so much? Where from?”
“Thomas’s mum passed. He was binning it. Waste not, eh? She saved all this, yet lived sparely…”
The heap grew. Margaret’s heart twisted—why, she couldn’t say.
That night, she dreamed a nightmare: she lay trapped in a sack, hands poking through slits, surrounded by towers of unused goods—shoes, cleaning supplies, quilts. A wad of cash sat on the nightstand.
“Did I hoard all this?”
The door, blocked by boxes, creaked open. A hooded figure loomed.
“Stop gawking. You leave it all!” A skeletal finger pointed at the stash, then at her.
She woke screaming. The room was bare.
“Just a dream, thank God!”
Yet she lay pondering…
At breakfast, she swept in, beaming.
“Children, I’ve decided! I’ll help with your house deposit—I’ve saved a bit!”
Eleanor’s spoon clattered. Edward choked.
“Mum, we’ll repay you! But why the change?”
“No more hoarding! Can’t take it with you. Time to live!” Humming, she reached for the teapot. “Now—who’s for shopping?”
Eleanor and Edward exchanged glances—a miracle had occurred. And who were they to argue?
