Emily and Thomas were preparing for their wedding. The night before the big day, the bride’s mother, Margaret Whitmore, dropped by to meet the future in-laws. The gathering took place at Thomas’s mother’s house—Penelope Ashford. They discussed wedding plans, shared a meal, and everything seemed pleasant enough. The next morning, as Margaret was leaving, Emily walked her out.
“So, what do you think of Tom?” Emily asked.
“Lovely chap,” her mother smiled, then sighed deeply.
“Mum, what’s wrong?” Emily frowned.
“Darling, steer clear of his mother. There’s a lot you don’t know about her.”
Those words soon carried weight.
When Emily discovered her mother-in-law planned to move in with them, she put her foot down. “You’ll have to choose—me or your mum,” she told Thomas.
“I won’t choose,” he replied calmly. “We carry on as we are, and she sorts her own affairs.”
“So… you won’t let her move in?”
“Already told her as much.”
“And how did she take it?”
“Badly. Called me ungrateful and swore I’d regret it.”
“Predictable.”
Penelope had retired early after years as an airline stewardess. “That’s enough. I’ve earned my rest,” she declared, receiving a pension far more generous than most.
Yet she quickly realized—it wasn’t enough for her lavish tastes. The solution? Pass the bills to her son.
“I raised you, gave you an education. Now it’s your turn to repay me,” she announced when Thomas was just 23. “Starting next month, you’ll pay the rent and groceries.”
“Fine,” he said. “But if I’m covering the household, you stay out of my life.”
She agreed—and, to her credit, kept her distance. Truth be told, her son’s life didn’t interest her much. Thomas had been raised mostly by his grandparents while she chased her own happiness, always just out of reach.
Years passed. Her son grew up, moved back in for sixth form. For five years, he paid the bills faithfully while she lived luxuriously, spending her pension on herself.
When Penelope turned fifty, Thomas brought home his bride.
“You look remarkable!” Emily blurted at their first meeting. “Not at all like a pensioner.”
Learning the newlyweds would live with her, Penelope beamed—”Splendid!”—while privately thinking, *At last, no more cooking.*
Emily took it as kindness, but Thomas set her straight: “She just didn’t have the nerve to kick us out. I’ve been covering everything for five years.”
Margaret’s visit soon shattered any illusions: “Sweetheart, be careful. That woman lives only for herself. She’ll forget you the moment it’s inconvenient. Hold tight to your husband—I like him. But his mother? Bad luck there.”
Six months later, Penelope fell head over heels. A man named Andrew started appearing more frequently. Then—
“You’ve got two weeks to move out. I’m selling the flat. Moving to Brighton.”
“You’re joking,” Thomas said flatly.
“Why not? It’s my flat. My parents gave it to me.”
“And you’re throwing us out?”
“Quite right. Perfectly legal.”
Thomas wordlessly grabbed his coat and left. By evening, he and Emily were packing. They moved in with a colleague who’d been looking for tenants. A month later, Penelope sold the flat and vanished to Brighton with Andrew.
Days after, Thomas tried borrowing money: “Absolutely not. Every penny’s accounted for,” she replied coolly.
“Good luck, then,” he said.
“And you,” she smiled. Not even a hug goodbye.
A year passed. Penelope called—divorced, swindled out of her money, Andrew gone. Homeless, she returned, announcing: “I’m living with you now.”
“No. Use what’s left, get a mortgage.”
“A mortgage? At my age? On a pension?”
“Find a job. Manage like everyone else.”
“You won’t help?”
“Don’t owe you a thing, Mum.”
She exploded. “Ungrateful wretch! I raised you!”
“I learned from the best,” he replied.
Penelope couch-surfed while her money lasted. Refusal after refusal. Back to her son.
“Mum, you’re neither ill nor ancient. Get a job. Rent a room. Sort yourself.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“No. You’re like the grasshopper who sang all summer.”
Eventually, Penelope landed on her feet—not with a job, but another marriage. To the first man with a flat who’d have her.
But that’s another story altogether.
