**A Mother I Owe Nothing To**
Emily and James were preparing for their wedding. The night before the ceremony, the bride’s mother, Margaret, came to meet the groom’s mother, Victoria. They gathered at Victoria’s home in London, discussing wedding plans over tea. The next morning, as Margaret was leaving, Emily walked her to the car.
“So, what do you think of James?” Emily asked.
“He seems lovely,” Margaret smiled, but then sighed deeply.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Sweetheart, keep your distance from his mother. There’s a lot you don’t know about her.”
Those words soon carried weight.
When Emily learned her mother-in-law planned to move in with them, she confronted James.
“You’ll have to choose—me or your mother.”
“I won’t choose anyone,” he replied calmly. “We’ll keep living as we are. She can sort herself out.”
“So, you won’t let her move in?”
“I’ve already told her no.”
“And how did she take it?”
“She was upset. Called me ungrateful and said I’d regret it.”
“Predictable.”
Victoria had retired early after years as a flight attendant.
“Enough. I’ve done my time,” she declared, securing a generous pension—far more than most.
But she soon realised her lifestyle demanded more. The solution came easily: shift the burden to her son.
“I raised you, gave you an education. Now it’s your turn to do your duty,” she told James when he was just 23. “Starting next month, you’ll cover the rent and groceries.”
“Fine,” he said. “But if I’m supporting you, you stay out of my life.”
She agreed—and, to her credit, kept her distance. His life never much interested her. James had been raised mostly by her parents while she chased her own happiness, fruitlessly.
Years passed. James moved back with her in secondary school. For five years, he paid the bills while she spent her pension on herself.
At fifty, Victoria met Emily.
“You look so well kept!” Emily blurted at their first meeting. “Not at all like a pensioner.”
When she learned the newlyweds would live with her, Victoria cheered—”All the better,” she said, thinking, *At least I won’t have to cook.*
Emily took it warmly, but James clarified:
“She just didn’t have the nerve to kick us out. I’ve been covering everything for years.”
Margaret’s visit shattered any illusions:
“Be careful, love. That woman lives only for herself. She’ll forget you if it suits her. Hold onto James—he’s good. But his mother… you drew the short straw.”
Six months later, Victoria fell for a man named Andrew. He visited often—and then…
“You have two weeks to move out. I’m selling the flat. Moving to Brighton.”
“You’re serious?” James stared.
“Why not? It’s my flat. My parents gave it to me.”
“And you’re throwing us out?”
“Yes. Perfectly legal.”
James pulled on 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, Victoria sold the flat and left with Andrew.
Days after, James asked to borrow money.
“No. Every penny’s accounted for,” she said coldly.
“Well, good luck.”
“And to you.” She didn’t even hug him goodbye.
A year passed. Victoria called—Andrew had taken her money and vanished. She was homeless. Returning, she announced:
“I’ll live with you.”
“No. Take what’s left, get a mortgage.”
“A mortgage? At my age? On my pension?”
“Find a job. Manage like everyone else.”
“So you won’t help me?”
“I owe you nothing, Mum.”
She exploded:
“You ungrateful wretch! I raised you!”
“I learned from the best,” he said quietly.
Victoria couch-surfed until her money ran out. Rejection followed rejection. Finally, she returned.
“Mum, you’re not ill or frail. Find work. Rent a room. Sort yourself out.”
“Don’t you pity me?”
“No. You’re like the grasshopper who sang all summer.”
Later, Victoria did find security—not work, but another marriage. The first willing man with a flat.
But that’s another story entirely.
