In the seaside town of Shorepine, where the morning mist settles on rooftops and the scent of pine mingles with sea salt, Oliver barely managed to haul a massive white sack to the front steps before exhaling wearily.
“Blimey, that’s heavy!” he muttered, glancing at his load.
Wiping sweat from his brow, he punched the flat number into the intercom.
“Oliver, is that you?” came his mother-in-law’s voice, and with a grunt, he dragged the sack toward the lift.
Heaving it straight into the kitchen, he set it down by the table.
“Oliver, what on earth is this?!” gasped Margaret Windsor, eyeing her son-in-law suspiciously.
Oliver gave a sly grin.
“Just you wait!” he said, unzipping the sack and emptying its contents onto the table.
“Good heavens, Oliver, why so much?!” Margaret’s eyes widened in shock.
Before meeting Oliver, Margaret prided herself on being thrifty. Her daughter, Elizabeth, had thought so too—though she suffered for it.
“Elizabeth, put that detergent back!” Margaret would order in the shop. “Grab the one next to it—half the price! Might as well stock up!”
“Mum, it’s not as good…” Elizabeth would protest.
“Rubbish! Same stuff, just no fancy ads. Detergent is detergent! Must you be so gullible?”
Grumbling about false economy, Elizabeth would return the pricier box and take her mum’s pick.
If detergent was bearable, clothes were another battle.
“Mum, what do you think?” Elizabeth would model a new skirt.
“Another one? How much?” Margaret would frown.
“Does it matter? I haven’t bought anything in ages! It looks good, that’s what counts!”
“Oh, but the price *does* matter!” Margaret would cross her arms, pinning her daughter with a stare.
Elizabeth would name the price, bracing for impact.
“Outrageous! That’s daylight robbery!” Margaret would huff.
“Mum, come off it! You can’t get anything decent for less these days! I want to look nice—I’ve been wearing rags!”
“Nice doesn’t mean expensive!” Margaret would snap.
Arguments about fabric quality or the perfect fit fell on deaf ears.
“Mum, why are you such a penny-pincher? We’re not broke!” Elizabeth would finally explode.
“And we’re not broke *because* I know how to save! You take after your father—a proper spendthrift!”
Elizabeth would go quiet, remembering the divorce. The fights, the splitting of assets, the alimony battles—it had turned thrifty Margaret into a true miser.
At university, Elizabeth never invited friends over. Her mother saw guests as an unnecessary expense.
“I don’t get this hosting nonsense!” she’d grumble. “People eat, drink, chatter, and guess who cleans up and restocks the fridge?”
Elizabeth tried explaining, but eventually gave up—her mother wouldn’t listen. After graduation, she got a job and met Oliver.
“Mum won’t like him,” Elizabeth realised immediately.
Oliver had none of what Margaret valued—no flat, no wealthy parents, no inheritance. Just an office worker with ambition. And ambition, as Margaret saw it, didn’t pay the bills. Elizabeth delayed the meeting, but when Oliver proposed, she had to face it.
“Oliver, my mum’s… particular,” she warned. “Very frugal.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” he shrugged.
“No, you don’t understand. She’s… tight-fisted to a fault. She’ll count every slice of bread you eat. Brace yourself. After the wedding, we’ll rent our own place—let her hoard in peace.”
“Nonsense!” Oliver grinned. “We’ll manage. Better yet, let’s live with her. We’ll never save for a place otherwise, and my folks’ house is packed. Your call!”
Elizabeth hesitated. “Oliver has no idea what he’s signing up for. But we can try. We’ll move out if it’s unbearable.”
“Alright, we’ll risk it,” she agreed. “But if it gets too much, say so.”
“You underestimate me,” Oliver winked.
They had a modest wedding, which pleased Margaret.
“Quite right—no need to waste money!” she approved.
Learning the newlyweds would move in, she frowned but saw the sense.
“Fine, save up for your own place. But *my* rules stand!”
“Wouldn’t dream of changing them!” Oliver cut in. “Margaret, you’re brilliant! Young folks today can’t budget, then complain. I’m on your side!”
Margaret flushed with delight.
“What a son-in-law! Poor but clever. He’ll go far!”
Oliver quickly won her trust, suggesting, “Let me handle the shopping—I know where the bargains are. We’ll save smart!”
“Oliver, you’re a treasure!” Margaret beamed.
Elizabeth watched in disbelief as Oliver winked at her.
Soon, the cupboards groaned with stockpiles. Oliver kept his word, and Margaret was thrilled—for a while.
“No-no, that’s too much!” Oliver snatched the washing powder scoop from her, dumping half back. “This is plenty!”
Margaret blinked at the reduced portion.
“Oliver, that’s not enough—it won’t clean!”
“Course it will! If it lathers, it’s clean!”
Margaret hesitated, then thought, *Maybe he’s right?*
Later, he asked Elizabeth, “What’s your mum’s weakness? What does she love?”
“Ah!” Elizabeth remembered. “She’s obsessed with crockery. Never buys second-hand. Skimps on everything *but* dishes—must be new and pretty.”
“Got it,” Oliver smirked. “That’s wastefulness. We’ll fix that.”
“Margaret, look at this cheap set I found online!” He produced chipped cups and plates.
She recoiled.
“Online? That’s used!”
“So? Wash it—good as new!”
“Never! Who knows who ate off them?!”
“*We* won’t. We’ll buy new if needed!” she insisted.
“But what about saving?” Oliver feigned shock.
“Crockery’s an exception.”
“Fair enough. Just remember—we might need exceptions too,” he sighed.
Margaret sensed a trick but couldn’t place it.
“Round one to us!” Oliver whispered to Elizabeth later.
“Did you just… get through to Mum?” she gasped.
“A bit. But it’s just the start,” he promised.
His next move came thanks to his mate, William. William’s mum had passed, and he asked Oliver to help clear her flat.
“Oliver, you won’t believe what she hoarded—soap, detergent, linens, clothes, all brand-new! Lived like a pauper. I’m stunned!”
Oliver went to help.
“Cor blimey!” He whistled at the piles. “Should’ve visited more.”
“I was working abroad—called often, seemed fine. Now this! Take what you want, else it’s landfill,” said William.
“Won’t say no!” Oliver stuffed a sack with soap.
“Wait, it might be expired,” William warned.
“Expired is perfect!” Oliver grinned.
Late that night, he lugged the sack home.
“Bloody heavy!” he panted, buzzing the intercom.
“Oliver, that you?” Margaret answered.
He hauled the sack to the kitchen.
“Oliver, what *is* this?!” Margaret gasped.
“Wait for it!” He dumped bars of soap onto the table.
“Heavens, why so much?! Where’d you get it?!”
“William’s mum passed. He was binning it all. I salvaged it—might as well use it. She scrimped all her life, God rest her…” The soap pile grew.
Margaret stared, a strange sorrow rising. She didn’t understand why.
That night, she dreamed she lay in bed inside a sack with armholes, surrounded by towers of boxes—shoes, cleaning supplies, linens—all unused. A wad of cash sat on the nightstand.
“Did I hoard all this?!” she marvelled in the dream.
The door, blocked by boxes, creaked open. A figure in a black robe entered.
“Quit gawking. Pack up! You leave it *all*!” The voice grated, a skeletal finger pointing at her.
Margaret screamed—and woke. The room was empty.
“Just a dream!” She wiped her brow.
And then—she *thought*.
Next morning, she swept into the kitchen where Elizabeth and Oliver breakfasted.
“Listen, darlings! I’ve decided—I’ll help with your flat deposit! I’ve saved a bit!”
Elizabeth dropped her spoon. Oliver choked.
“Mum, thank you! We’ll pay you back!” Elizabeth recovered first. “But why the change?”
“Enough hoarding! Can’t take it with you! Time to *live*!” HumWith a satisfied smile, Oliver squeezed Elizabeth’s hand under the table, knowing their plan had finally worked—Margaret was free at last.
