The Intruder

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 8 minViews 2

The family verdict was handed down by the eldest daughter, Ethel. Shed never married her sharp tongue and lofty standards kept the suitors at bay and by thirty shed become a bitter, selfproclaimed antihusband crusader. A regular stomach ulcer of a woman, a nightmare for any man.

Milly, she declared, stamping the name into the air. The younger sister, Agnes, a plump, giggly sort, laughed approvingly. Their mother, Mrs. Bartholomew, stayed silent, her sour expression making it clear the new daughterinlaw wasnt winning any points. What could? The only son, the familys rock, had gone off to the Army and returned with a bride. She came with neither parents nor a penny to her name. Whether shed grown up in an orphanage or was a runaway from a distant relative, nobody knew. Henry, the son, tried to brush it off with jokes about building our own fortune, as if that would solve everything. Who had he brought into the house? A thief? A conartist? The world was full of such folk these days.

Since Milly arrived, the old house had never known a night of full sleep again. Shed doze in halfopen eyes, waiting for some mischief from the new relative as she roamed the cupboards. The daughters kept nudging her: Mother, maybe you could hide the valuables with the kin, just in case! Who knew what could vanish a fur coat, a stash of gold? One morning they might wake to find the pantry emptied.

And Henrys tongue was soon chewed up Who did you bring into the house? Where were your eyes? The criticism was sharp, but life had to go on, and Milly was forced into the role.

The Bartholomew farm was respectable: thirty acres of fields, three piglets in the sty, and a flock of chickens that could fill a small pond. No amount of hard work could be done in a single day, yet Milly never complained. She cooked, cleaned, tended the pigs, and tried earnestly to please her motherinlaw. Still, if the matriarchs heart wasnt softened, no amount of goldlined floors would help.

On her first day, Milly, choking back frustration, snapped: Call me by my proper name, Mrs. Bartholomew. I have my own daughters; youll never be a true mother to me.

From then on Milly was called Dorothy Bartholomew, and the old woman never used the word daughterinlaw again. She would mutter We must get on with it and leave it at that, refusing to indulge any more drama. Yet she made sure no lazy relative could slack off; every idle moment was filled with chores. Once the mother even had to keep the daughters from wandering off, not out of pity for Milly but to keep the house in order. The girl proved diligent, never shirking, and slowly the mothers icy edges began to melt.

Things might have settled, if only Henry hadnt gone wandering.

What man can stand a wife who nags from dawn till dusk, Did you marry him? Did you marry him? Ethel finally introduced him to a friend, and chaos erupted. The sisters celebrated, thinking the troublesome Milly would finally be swept away. The mother stayed quiet, while Milly pretended nothing had happened, her eyes narrowed to tiny, mournful slits. Then, like a bolt from the blue, two announcements arrived: Milly was expecting, and Henry was filing for divorce.

Not on my watch, the mother told Henry. I never set you up with her.

But married is married, she added dryly. Youll be a father soon enough. If you wreck the family, Ill throw you out and I wont even miss you. And Sherry will stay here.

For the first time in years, the mother called Milly by her given name. The sisters went pale. Henry snapped, Im a man, I decide. The mother planted her hands on her hips and laughed: What sort of man are you? Youre still in your breeches! Have a child, raise it, give it a brain, turn it into a proper person, then maybe youll earn the title man.

The mother never missed a chance to jab, but she also never left Henry to his own devices.

If Milly had any plans, they were quickly abandoned. She left, and Sherry stayed behind. In due course she gave birth to a little girl, named Vicky. When the mother learned of Vicky, she said nothing, but the sparkle in her eyes said it all.

On the outside, nothing changed in the house, except that Henry seemed to have misplaced the way back home. He sulked. The mother, though she hid her worry, loved the granddaughter, pampering her with gifts and sweets. As for Sherry, she never forgave the fact that shed lost a son through Milly, yet she never voiced that grievance.

Ten years passed. The sisters married, and the big house was left to the trio: the mother, Sherry, and Vicky. Henry enlisted again and went north with a new wife. A retired soldier, a serious older man, started visiting Sherry, offering to chip in on the rent. Hed been divorced, left his flat to her, and lived in a council house. He drew a pension, was respectable, and seemed a good match. Sherry liked him, but where would she take him? To the mothers house?

She explained everything, begged forgiveness, and made a bold move. The man, not a fool, showed up at the mothers door, declaring, Mrs. Bartholomew, I love Sherry, I cant live without her. Not a single muscle twitched on the mothers face.

Love, eh? she said, Well then, get married and live together.

She paused, then added, I wont let Vicky be shuffled around like a piece of furniture. Shell stay here, with me.

And so they all lived under one roof. The neighbours whispered, sharpening their tongues, gossiping about how the nutty Bartholomew had driven her own son out and taken in the troublesome Milly. Only the lazy landlord never bothered to clean Varvaras (Millys) dishes. She ignored the idle chatter, never joining the gossip with the neighbours, keeping a proud, untouchable air. Sherry gave birth to Kat. The mother could hardly contain her delight at her beloved granddaughters, though she often muttered, Which one of them is really my grandson?

Then disaster struck, as it often does. Sherry fell gravely ill. Her husband broke down, even turned to drink. The mother, without a word, emptied her savings and whisked Sherry off to London, buying every medicine, consulting every specialist. It wasnt enough.

One morning Sherry felt a little better and asked for chicken broth. The mother, delighted, slaughtered a chicken, plucked it, and simmered it. When she brought the steaming bowl, Sherry couldnt swallow it and, for the first time ever, burst into tears. The mother, never seen crying before, wept beside her:

Whats the matter, dear? Why are you leaving me now that I finally love you?

She soon composed herself, wiped her eyes and said, Dont worry about the children; theyll be fine. From then on she cried no more, staying by Sherrys side, holding her hand, gently stroking it as if asking forgiveness for all the years of coldness.

Another ten years slipped by. Vicky was to be married. Ethel and Agnes returned, older, a little plump, childless. The whole clan gathered. Henry came back, now divorced from his second wife and drinking heavily. He saw Vicky, a stunning young woman, and exclaimed, I never imagined Id have such a lovely daughter. But when he learned that she called her fatherfigure the other man, his mood darkened, and he blamed the mother, Why did you let a stranger into this house? He should be cleaning, not staying! Im the father here.

The mother answered calmly, No, son. Youre not a father. Youve been in your trousers since youth and never grown out of them.

She said it with that same finality. Henry, humiliated, packed a bag and set off again. Vicky married, had a boy, and named him Alexander in honour of her stepdad. Last year, Vickys mother, Vicky herself, was laid to rest beside Sherry.

Now they lie side by side: daughterinlaw and motherinlaw, with a birch tree sprouting between them this spring. No one knows where it came from; no one planted it. Perhaps its a farewell kiss from Sherry, or a final apology from the mother.

My son spent years searching for the right woman to marry, but I never questioned his choices—until, at 30, he found Emily, who seemed perfect for him. Every day, I heard about how kind and beautiful she was—my son was truly smitten, and I found myself growing fond of Emily as well. He spoke of her virtues with such passion to me and his friends that, when they quickly decided to marry, I wholeheartedly supported his decision as a loving mother. Planning a wedding can be daunting, but my friends pulled it off brilliantly. The bride’s parents were wonderful, and we got along famously from the start. It was blissful at first, but gradually, things changed. Their marriage began to fall apart and conflicts became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year together and believed things would settle down, but I worried—they deserved to be happy. One evening shook me deeply. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his belongings. He told me he had nowhere to go; his wife had kicked him out. He stayed with me for a few days, and Emily never came by, not even to talk things over. This pattern kept repeating itself. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided to sit down with them and offer some advice on avoiding future misunderstandings. Unfortunately, my attempt only made things worse. Their disagreements became more frequent, and my son stayed at my place even more often. He was a changed man, no longer the happy person he once was—I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Watching my son suffer in such a toxic relationship was unbearable, so I advised him to consider whether it was worth staying married. He could be a wonderful father even if he and Emily lived apart. Shortly after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Emily came to me asking for help. She pleaded with me to convince my son to withdraw the divorce petition, as she didn’t want to tear their family apart. I had often encouraged her to nurture her family, but now she was blaming me publicly for interfering and causing the split. Now, I don’t know if urging my son to divorce was the right thing to do. His wife dislikes me, and my son seems to be drifting away from me too. Maybe they still love each other? Living apart is hard, but staying together wasn’t working either.

Every Man for Himself “Mum, you can’t imagine what the property market’s like right now,” Max fretted, sifting nervously through a stack of printouts, sorting them into neat piles before fanning them out across the kitchen table. “Prices go up every week. If we don’t put down a deposit right now, someone else will snap up this flat.” Lydia slid a cup of cooling tea over to her son and sat down opposite. Floorplans, figures, and repayment charts flickered across the pages. A three-bedroom in a new build—Tim and Sophie would finally get their own rooms. “How much are you short?” “Eight hundred and twenty thousand,” Max pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know, it’s a lot. But Anya’s at her wits’ end, the kids are growing, and we’re still hopping between rentals…” Staring at her son, Lydia saw the same boy who used to bring her limp bouquets of dandelions. Thirty-two, two children, and the frown line between his brows was just as it had been in childhood, whenever he worried over unfinished homework. “I’ve got savings. It’s in the account.” “Mum, I’ll pay you back, promise. As soon as things settle, I’ll start putting money aside straight away.” She covered his hand with her own, roughened by years of constant cooking and cleaning. “Max, it’s for your kids. There’s no need to talk about repayment. Family matters more than money.” At the bank, Lydia filled in forms letter-perfect, thanks to thirty years as a bookkeeper. Eight hundred and twenty thousand—nearly all she’d set aside over recent years. For a rainy day, for the unknown, the ‘just in case.’ Max hugged her tightly at the cashier’s counter—ignoring the waiting queue. “You’re the best, you know that? I’ll never forget this.” Lydia patted his back. “Go on. Anya’s probably waiting.” …The first months after the move blurred into a carousel of cross-city journeys. Lydia turned up with bags from Tesco—chicken, buckwheat, butter, kids’ yogurts. Helped Anya put up curtains, assemble furniture, scrub construction dust from the windowsills. “Careful with the tools, Tim!” she’d call, hanging curtains and simultaneously explaining to her daughter-in-law the proper way to cook cabbage rolls. Anya nodded absently, scrolling through her phone. Max appeared each evening, exhausted from work, wolfed down his mum’s cooking, then disappeared into the bedroom. “Thanks, Mum,” he’d say fleetingly. “What would we do without you?” …Half a year later, a familiar number appeared on her screen. “Mum, listen… My mortgage payment and car repairs both landed this month. We’re short thirty-five thousand.” Lydia sent the money without extra questions. Young families struggle—everyone knows that. Adapting to new expenses, little kids, stressful jobs. It’s all right, they’ll get on their feet—repay her. Or maybe not. Did it really matter, when it came to your own children? The years slipped faster than water through her fingers. Tim turned seven and Lydia gave him the Lego set he’d begged for all year. Sophie twirled in a new pink dress—sequined just like a princess from the cartoons. “Gran, you’re the best!” Sophie clung around her neck—sweet with the smell of shampoo and sweets. Every weekend, Lydia took the grandkids—to her house, the theatre, the funfair, the ice rink. She bought ice creams, toys, books. Her shabby old coat was always bulging with sweets and wet wipes. Five years passed in this generous, self-inflicted servitude. Money for the mortgage—”Mum, things are tight this month.” Days off for sick grandkids— “Mum, we just can’t get away from work.” Groceries— “Mum, you’re going to the shop anyway, aren’t you?” Gratitude came less and less often… …That morning, she examined the water stains spreading across her kitchen ceiling. Rusty marks crawling through the plaster. She’d been flooded—and living there was now impossible. She rang her son. “Max, I need help with repairs. I’ve been flooded, don’t know when or if I’ll get money back…” “Mum,” her son cut her off, “You have to understand, I just have other priorities now. Kids’ clubs, their activities, Anya’s signed up for courses…” “I’m not asking for much. Just help finding a tradesman, or even…” “I really don’t have time for trivial stuff right now, Mum,” Max insisted, not listening. “Let’s talk about it later. I’ll call, yeah?” An engaged tone… Lydia put down her phone. A screensaver flickered—last year’s New Year photo: herself, Tim, Sophie, all smiling. The money he’d borrowed without a second thought. The weekends she’d given up for his children. The time, energy, love—all that was ‘in the past.’ Now—”other priorities.” A drop of water from the ceiling splashed on her hand. Cold… Next day, Anya called herself. Unusual, enough to set Lydia on edge before her daughter-in-law had even spoken. “Lydia, Max told me about your call,” Anya said, briskly. “You do realise everyone’s responsible for their own problems? We’ve got the flat to run, the mortgage to pay…” Lydia nearly laughed. The mortgage—she’d covered every third payment. The deposit—almost entirely her savings. “Of course, Anya,” she replied evenly. “Each to their own.” “Glad to hear it. Max was just worried you’d taken offence. You haven’t, have you?” “No. Not at all.” Engaged tone… Lydia stared at her phone for a long time as if it were some strange insect. Then she walked to the window, but turned away—nothing outside could comfort her. Her nights became endless hours where the ceiling pressed down, thoughts hovering endlessly. Lydia lay in the dark, sorting out the last five years like beads. She’d created this herself—raising her son to believe a mother was an inexhaustible resource. In the morning, Lydia rang the estate agent. “I’d like to list my cottage for sale. Six acres, just outside London, electricity sorted.” The holiday home she and her husband had built over twenty years. Apple trees she’d planted while pregnant with Max. The veranda where they’d spent so many summer evenings. A buyer turned up within a month. Lydia signed the paperwork, refusing to dwell on what she was selling. The money landed in her account, and she split it up methodically: repairs, a new savings account, a small reserve for emergencies. The builders arrived the following week. Lydia chose her own tiles, wallpaper, fixtures. For the first time in years, she spent on herself—not putting money aside for a rainy day, not worrying who’d need help next. Max didn’t call. Two weeks, three, a month. Lydia stayed silent too. He finally called when the renovations were finished. The new kitchen gleamed white, the windows no longer whistled, the pipes had stopped bleeding rust across the ceiling. “Mum, why haven’t you been over? Sophie was asking.” “I’ve been busy.” “With what?” “Living, Max. My own life.” She visited a week later. Brought books for the grandkids—good presents, but nothing extravagant. Sat two hours for tea, chatting about the weather and Tim’s schoolwork. Declined dinner. “Mum, could you watch the kids Saturday?” Max caught her in the hallway. “Anya and I…” “I can’t. I have plans.” Lydia saw his face fall. He didn’t understand—yet. Months slipped by, and understanding came slowly, painfully. Without his mother’s transfers, the mortgage chewed up a third of the family budget. Without a free babysitter, there was no one to leave the kids with. Lydia, meanwhile, opened a new high-interest savings account. Bought herself a new coat—good, warm, not on sale. Spent two weeks at a spa in Devon. Signed up for a Nordic walking class. She remembered how Anya’s parents always kept their distance—polite greetings at holidays, obligatory visits every couple of months. No money, no help, no sacrifices. And no complaints from their daughter. Perhaps they’d been right all along? Sporadic visits with the grandchildren became a formality. Lydia brought modest gifts, chatted about school and friends, left after a couple of hours, never stayed for dinner, never took the kids for the weekend. Once Tim asked, “Gran, why don’t you take us to the park anymore?” “Gran’s busy these days, love.” The boy didn’t understand. But Max, standing in the doorway, seemed to finally be catching on. Lydia went back to her renovated flat, the air scented with fresh paint and new furniture. Brewed good tea, sat back in her comfy new chair, courtesy of the cottage sale. Guilt? It still crept in at night. Less and less. Because Lydia had finally learned the simplest truth: love does not mean self-sacrifice—especially when sacrifice goes unseen and unappreciated. She chose herself—for the first time in thirty-two years of motherhood.

My Son Spent Years Searching for the Right Woman to Marry—At 30, He Finally Found His Perfect Match in Alice. I Supported His Choice, but Now Their Marriage Is Falling Apart, and I’m Not Sure If I Made Things Worse by Urging Him to Leave Almost every day, I heard about how lovely and beautiful Alice was. My son was truly smitten with her, and I liked her too. He passionately told me and his friends about her wonderful qualities—she seemed to be the perfect woman for him, so he married her without hesitation. As a loving mum, I fully supported his choice. Planning a wedding can be a real challenge, but my friends were absolute stars. The bride’s parents were delightful, and we got on famously from the start. At first, everything was perfect, but over time, things began to change. Their marriage started falling apart, and arguments became more frequent. I knew it was only their first year of marriage and hoped things would improve, but I worried about them—I just wanted them to be happy together. One evening really shook me. Late at night, my son arrived at my door with his things, saying he had nowhere else to go because Alice had kicked him out. He spent a few days with me, and Alice never came round to try to work things out. This happened again and again. When my daughter-in-law told me she was pregnant, I decided it was time for a chat with them. I just wanted to offer some advice to help them avoid misunderstandings in the future. It only made things worse. Their arguments became even more frequent, and my son stayed over at my place more often. I could see he was struggling—he wasn’t the happy man he used to be; there was disappointment in his eyes. I couldn’t stand seeing my son so unhappy in his marriage. I suggested he think carefully about whether it was worth staying together. He could still be a wonderful father even if he lived apart. Soon after, he filed for divorce. Not long after, Alice came to me for help, asking me to persuade my son to withdraw the divorce papers—she didn’t want the family to fall apart. I’d already advised her more than once to focus on her marriage. Now I’m accused of interfering in their relationship. I don’t know if I did the right thing by urging my son to divorce. His wife doesn’t like me, and he’s grown more distant from me as well. But maybe they still love each other? Living apart feels wrong, but living together isn’t working out either.