THE MOTHER WHO WASN’T CHOSEN
Veronica could find no excuse for how her husband, James, allowed his own mother to so brazenly invade their lives. She knew how deeply he had been hurt as a child—how he had shivered through winters of neglect while his older brother, Oliver, basked in their mother’s affection. James wore Oliver’s threadbare hand-me-downs, lingering on the periphery like an afterthought.
Why, then, did he—now a grown man, successful, the head of his own household—let Margaret simply walk in, not as a guest but as if reclaiming a fiefdom, settling into the room he had once dreamed of filling with their future child?
*”She’s still my mother,”* James murmured, as though apologizing not just to Veronica but to some shadow of guilt within himself. *”We’ll manage. There’s no baby yet.”*
He smoothed things over, though his every instinct rebelled. He had only just begun to live as he’d dreamed—buying the house, marrying the woman he loved fiercely, falling asleep without the old fear of being unwanted. And now—his mother. Lugging her bags, her grievances, her unspoken claim to what she *deserved.*
*”You said this room was for our children!”* Veronica’s voice frayed. *”Now your mother rules it like it’s hers. No discussion, no permission.”*
James stayed silent. Yes, he had bought this house for those two rooms—master and nursery—because he’d wanted a family. Now the dream was deferred again, pushed aside as it had been in childhood.
It was all happening again.
He remembered their cramped flat—Oliver showered with gifts, new clothes, birthday cakes while he, James, swallowed tales of thrift, of *”we can’t afford it,”* of joy as a luxury. How his mother scraped together money for Oliver’s new coat while he got secondhand shoes from the market. He knew he had been the *leftover child.*
And now she was here. Claiming it was just for a few days, yet already nesting, already criticizing Veronica’s cooking, her cleaning, her very appearance. And just like before, she dredged up that old guilt—*not good enough, not measuring up.*
Veronica tried to endure. But cracks spread. She told James how Margaret moved her things, swapped her healthy meals for greasy roasts, scoffed at the water she drank. *”She’s doing it on purpose,”* Veronica hissed, fists clenched.
James attempted to reason with his mother. Her reply? *”You’d kick me out of a home bought on my prayers? I’ll leave the flat to Oliver, and you’ll regret casting me aside. Ungrateful!”*
He brushed it off. He didn’t want that flat. But when Veronica, voice shaking, showed him the papers she’d found in Margaret’s things, James felt the air leave his lungs. Everything—the flat, the garage, even that scrap of land where he’d planted potatoes as a boy—was signed over to Oliver. Every promise had been a lie.
*”She swore it would all be mine. Said she lived for me.”* James sank into the armchair. He didn’t cry. His silence squeezed Veronica’s heart.
The next day, he left for work without a word. That evening, he returned to find the house emptied of his mother. Her bags waited by the gate; Veronica’s eyes burned with quiet fury.
*”I told her to leave. I’m sorry if it should’ve been your decision, but I couldn’t take it anymore.”*
*”Because of the papers?”* he asked, weary.
*”Not just that. When I confronted her, she called me nothing. Said you were her son, and I was just some hanger-on. That this was your house, so it was hers. That you’d leave me once she ‘opened your eyes.’”*
James was quiet. Then, for the first time, he called his mother a *viper.* And didn’t regret it.
*”And at the end,”* Veronica added, *”she cursed us. You, me, our future child. Said we’d lose everything.”*
James nodded. It was all too familiar. Too predictable.
Months passed. The house grew peaceful again. Veronica carried their child; James stopped calling his mother or brother. He erased them. No more bending to please.
Then, one afternoon, pushing the pram, Veronica ran into a neighbor from their old street. The woman confessed: Margaret had left Oliver’s place. Or rather, he had *placed* her—in a care home. They had clashed for months before he packed her bags and declared he had no room for a *difficult old woman.*
Veronica froze. Her chest tightened.
*”He mustn’t know,”* she whispered to herself. *”Mustn’t.”*
Returning home, she said nothing—not about the care home, nor how Margaret had begged neighbors for her son’s number. Nothing.
Because her James deserved peace. Simple, human happiness. And if that meant turning away from another’s lonely twilight, she would. Love wasn’t just warmth. It was boundaries, too.
So they live. In a house where the nursery waits for laughter, where the bedroom no longer echoes with lies. Where Margaret no longer dictates, and Veronica no longer grinds her teeth in silence.
They just live. As a family. A real one.
