A blinding shaft of sunlight pierced through the curtains, casting sharp light over the tense faces gathered around the dining table, yet even its warmth couldn’t melt the frost that had settled over the spacious living room.
*”Emily and I want to stay here for a couple of years,”* Thomas said firmly, steadying the tremor in his voice. *”It’ll help us save for our own flat.”*
Beside him, Emily nervously twisted the edge of the tablecloth. Across from them, Margaret—Thomas’s mother—sat frozen with a knife in her hand, as if she meant to slice straight through the idea itself. His father, Harold, sipped his tea absently, avoiding eye contact.
*”Live here?”* Margaret finally set the knife down. *”With… this wife of yours?”*
*”Yes, Mum. With my wife.”* Thomas emphasized the last word. *”We’re tired of renting. It’ll just be until we’ve saved enough for a mortgage.”*
*”There’s space enough,”* Harold interjected, pushing his cup aside. *”Two rooms sitting empty. Why not help the kids out?”*
Margaret shot him a withering glare. *”And who asked me? Am I meant to endure a stranger in my own home?”*
*”Emily isn’t a stranger,”* Thomas felt anger simmering beneath his skin. *”She’s my family.”*
*”Family!”* Margaret scoffed. *”This is a phase, Thomas. I see right through her. Do you think she loves you? She wants this house. Your money. Your share!”*
Thomas clenched his fists. They’d had this argument before—countless times. From the moment he’d first introduced Emily, his mother had despised her without explanation. Perhaps because Emily had been the one to break the unspoken order—the one where Thomas remained firmly under Margaret’s control.
*”Mum,”* he forced calm into his voice, *”a third of this house is mine. Gran’s will made sure of that. I have every right to live here.”*
Margaret paled. *”Are you threatening me? Your own mother? She put you up to this, didn’t she? Taught you to blackmail me!”*
*”Enough, Margaret,”* Harold’s voice sharpened. *”Thomas is right. This is his home too.”*
*”Then let him live in his third!”* Margaret stood abruptly. *”The storage room, maybe! Or the balcony!”*
Thomas rose slowly, his patience snapping. *”Fine. If you won’t play nice, I’ll sell my share. And trust me—I’ll find buyers who’ll make you regret it. Imagine living next to blokes who blast music all night. Or reptile collectors.”*
*”You wouldn’t dare,”* Margaret hissed.
*”You’ve got a week to decide,”* Thomas turned toward the door. *”After that, I call the estate agent.”*
In the hallway, he paused, willing the shaking in his hands to stop. He’d never challenged his mother before—not like this. But for Emily, for their future, he was ready to do anything.
Back in their rented flat, Emily took one look at his stormy expression and knew. *”How did it go?”*
*”Same as always,”* he sighed, collapsing onto the sofa. *”Dad’s on our side. Mum isn’t. But I made it clear—we either stay there, or I sell my share.”*
Emily frowned. *”Thomas, maybe we shouldn’t—”*
*”No,”* he cut in. *”I won’t back down. She has to accept you.”*
A week passed. No answer. On the eighth day, Thomas called the estate agent. *”I want to sell my third. Fast and cheap.”*
Three days later, the first “buyers” arrived at his parents’ house—two blokes covered in tattoos, reeking of booze. Harold greeted them with a grin. *”Come in, have a look! Prime location—city centre!”*
*”Where’s our third, then?”* one grunted, eyeing the living room. *”We sleepin’ in the loo?”*
*”Legal grey area, that,”* Harold winked. *”Technically, the whole place is shared.”*
Margaret stormed in at the noise. *”Who the hell are these people?”*
*”Potential buyers, love,”* Harold said casually. *”Interested in Thomas’s share.”*
*”Get out!”* she shrieked. *”No one’s living in my home!”*
The next day brought a pair of eccentric bug enthusiasts raving about their *”harmless palm-sized spiders.”* Margaret went pale. The third prospect—a self-proclaimed *”nighttime drumming meditation guru”*—was worse.
By day four, Margaret cracked and called Thomas. *”Are you seriously selling to lunatics?”*
*”I warned you,”* he said coldly. *”You had your chance.”*
*”Fine,”* she spat. *”Let your Emily come. But there will be rules!”*
That evening, Thomas returned alone—no point subjecting Emily to more humiliation.
*”Name your rules,”* he said, meeting her gaze.
*”None of her things in the lounge or kitchen,”* Margaret began. *”She cooks? She cleans. And no guests!”*
*”Now mine,”* Thomas folded his arms. *”We take the spare bedroom and study. Equal use of the house. And most importantly—you stop insulting Emily. One dig, and I sell. No warnings.”*
Margaret’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. *”Fine. But it’s temporary.”*
They moved in a week later, bringing only essentials. Harold helped carry boxes. *”This is your room. Make yourselves at home.”*
*”Cheers, Dad.”* Thomas hugged him.
Margaret lingered in the doorway, arms crossed. Emily tried bridging the gap. *”Hello, Margaret. Thank you for having us.”*
*”Don’t mention it,”* Margaret snapped, walking away.
The silent war began immediately—Margaret avoided Emily, speaking only through Thomas or Harold. She hid dishes, vacuumed at dawn when they slept, inspected every inch after Emily cooked.
Emily endured it. She cleaned, laundered, cooked—hoping for even a shred of kindness. Then she found her notebook torn up in the bin. Her face cream smeared in the sink.
*”She hates me,”* Emily admitted after two months. *”Maybe we should leave.”*
*”No,”* Thomas said. *”We’re not giving in.”*
His confrontation with Margaret was explosive. *”You’ve become a stranger, Thomas! Blackmailing me over this girl!”*
*”It’s not blackmail,”* he said flatly. *”It’s boundaries. Stop tormenting Emily, or I do what I promised.”*
Margaret grew subtler—whispering to neighbours, calling Emily lazy, gold digging. Each rumour was a fresh sting.
Unexpectedly, Harold became Emily’s ally. He praised her efforts, chatting about trips and old films. *”Don’t take it to heart,”* he said once. *”Margaret’s afraid you’ll take her son away.”*
*”I’m not taking him,”* Emily whispered. *”I just love him.”*
*”She’ll see that,”* Harold smiled. *”Give her time.”*
But time didn’t help. Margaret sabotaged Emily’s food, cut the Wi-Fi during her remote work. Emily bore it—their savings grew, their own flat inching closer.
A year and a half later, Thomas burst in with news. *”We did it! Two-bed new build—mortgage approved. We move next month!”*
Harold raised a glass at dinner. *”To your new home!”*
Margaret stayed silent, her eyes icy.
*”This was all our money,”* Thomas said pointedly. *”Emily’s too. She worked just as hard.”*
*”So you used us,”* Margaret said thinly. *”Lived off us, saved, and now you’re leaving.”*
*”Mum,”* Thomas met her gaze, *”we lived in *my* share. Emily cleaned, cooked, put up with you. Who used who?”*
*”She tore this family apart!”* Margaret exploded. *”Turned you against me—invaded our lives!”*
Emily stood, voice shaking. *”I never wanted this. I just loved your son. You never gave me a chance.”*
Margaret opened her mouth, but Thomas cut in. *”We’re done. We’re leaving—this table, this house, *you*—until you learn respect.”*
Harold walked them out. *”I’ll talk to her. She’ll come round.”*
Thomas shook his head.
The move was freedom. Their small flat breathed possibility. Unpacking, Emily paused. *”What if she never changes?”*
Thomas pulled her close. *”Then that’s her choice. We’ll build our own life.”*
But one rainy afternoon, a hesitant knock echoed at their door, and when Emily opened it, she found Margaret standing there, her face lined with unspoken regret, clutching a fresh-baked loaf of bread—the same one Thomas had loved as a boy.
