A dazzling beam of sunlight pierced through the curtains, illuminating the tense faces around the dining table, yet it couldn’t thaw the icy silence hanging in the spacious living room.
“We’d like to stay here for a couple of years,” James spoke firmly, masking the tremor in his voice. “It’ll help us save for our own flat.”
Hannah, seated beside him, nervously fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. Across from them, Margaret, James’s mother, froze with a knife in hand, as if poised to slice through their proposal rather than the loaf of bread. His father, Robert, sipped his tea thoughtfully, avoiding eye contact.
“Stay here?” Margaret slowly set the knife down. “With… *her*?”
“Yes, Mum. With my *wife*,” James emphasised the last word. “We’re tired of renting. It’s temporary, just until we can afford a mortgage.”
“We’ve got the space,” Robert chimed in, setting his cup aside. “Two rooms are sitting empty. Why not help the kids out?”
Margaret shot him a withering glare. “Did anyone ask *me*? Am I expected to put up with some stranger in *my* home?”
“Hannah isn’t a stranger,” James felt his temper rising. “She’s my family.”
“Family!” His mother scoffed. “This is a passing fancy, James. I see right through her. Do you think she loves you? She wants our flat, your money—your inheritance!”
James clenched his fists. This argument had played out too many times. From the moment he’d met Hannah, his mother had despised her—unreasonably, unrelentingly. Perhaps because Hannah had disrupted the carefully controlled world where James had always been under Margaret’s thumb.
“Mum,” James kept his voice steady, “a third of this flat belongs to me. Gran’s will made sure of that. I’ve every right to live here.”
Margaret paled. “Are you threatening me? Your own mother? *She’s* put you up to this, hasn’t she? Taught you to manipulate me!”
“That’s enough, Margaret,” Robert interjected sharply. “James is right. It’s his home too.”
“Fine! Let him live in his *third* then!” Margaret shot to her feet. “The storage cupboard! Or the balcony!”
James stood slowly, his patience snapping. “Alright. If you won’t agree reasonably, I’ll sell my share. And trust me, I’ll find neighbours who’ll make you regret it. Imagine living next to a band rehearsing at midnight—or a bloke with a python collection?”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Margaret hissed.
“You’ve got a week to decide,” James turned toward the door. “After that, I call the estate agent.”
In the hallway, he stopped, steadying his shaking hands. He’d never challenged his mother like this before. But for Hannah—for their future—he’d do whatever it took.
Back at their rented flat, Hannah took one look at his grim expression and sighed. “How’d it go?”
“Predictable,” he sank onto the sofa. “Dad’s on our side, Mum’s against us. But I made it clear—either we live there, or I sell my share.”
Hannah frowned. “James, maybe we shouldn’t—”
“No,” he cut in. “I won’t back down. She has to accept you.”
A week passed with no response. On the eighth day, James phoned the estate agent. “I want to sell my third of the flat. Quick and cheap.”
Three days later, the first “buyers” arrived at his parents’ home—two lads reeking of lager and sporting ink-covered arms. Robert greeted them cheerfully. “Come in, have a look! Prime location, this!”
“Where’s our bit, then?” one grunted, eyeing the living room. “Sleep in the loo?”
“That’s the legal bit,” Robert winked. “Technically, the whole flat’s shared.”
Margaret stormed in, her voice trembling with fury. “Who the hell are *these*?”
“Potential buyers, love,” Robert said mildly. “Interested in James’s share.”
“Get *out*!” she shrieked. “No one’s invading my home!”
The next group was worse—an eccentric couple boasting about their tropical beetle collection. Margaret went white at the mention of “harmless palm-sized spiders.” The third visitors topped it—a bloke who “meditated” at 3 AM with bongo drums.
By day four, Margaret cracked and called James. “You’re really selling to these lunatics?”
“I warned you,” he said coolly. “You had your chance.”
“Fine,” she spat. “Bring your *Hannah*. But there’ll be rules!”
That evening, James went alone to negotiate. Hannah stayed behind—he wouldn’t subject her to more humiliation.
“Name your terms,” he said, meeting his mother’s glare.
“None of her clutter in the lounge or kitchen,” Margaret began. “If she cooks, she cleans. No guests!”
“Now *my* conditions,” James folded his arms. “We take the spare room and the study. Equal use of the flat. And most importantly—you stop insulting Hannah. One jab, and I sell. No warnings.”
Margaret gritted her teeth but nodded. “Fine. But it’s temporary.”
They moved in a week later, bringing only essentials. Robert helped carry boxes. “Here’s your room. Make yourselves at home.”
“Thanks, Dad,” James hugged him.
Margaret lurked in the doorway, arms crossed. Hannah tried breaking the ice. “Hello, Margaret. Thank you for having us.”
“Mm,” Margaret sniffed and vanished into the kitchen.
The silent war began immediately. Margaret avoided speaking to Hannah directly, relaying messages through James or Robert. She hid cutlery, vacuumed at dawn when they slept, and inspected every crumb after Hannah cooked.
Hannah bit her tongue. She cleaned, did laundry, cooked dinners—hoping to earn even grudging respect. But then she found her notebook shredded in the bin. Her face cream was smeared in the sink.
“She *hates* me,” Hannah confessed after two months. “Maybe we should leave.”
“No,” James said. “We’re not surrendering. I’ll talk to her.”
The confrontation was brutal. James reminded Margaret about selling his share. She exploded. “You’ve changed, James! Blackmailing me over some girl!”
“It’s not blackmail,” he said flatly. “It’s boundaries. Stop tormenting Hannah, or I’ll do what I said.”
Margaret eased up slightly but didn’t relent. She spread gossip among neighbours, painting Hannah as lazy and gold-digging. The whispers stung.
Unexpectedly, Robert became Hannah’s ally. He admired her efforts and chatted with her about films and travels. “Don’t take it to heart,” he said once. “Margaret’s scared you’ll steal her son.”
“I’m not stealing him,” Hannah whispered. “I just love him.”
“She’ll come around,” he smiled.
But time didn’t soften Margaret. She spoiled Hannah’s groceries, “accidentally” cut the Wi-Fi during her work calls. Hannah endured, counting down to their own place.
A year and a half later, James burst in with news. “We did it! Two-bed in a new build, mortgage approved. We move next month!”
Robert raised his wineglass at dinner. “To your new home!”
Margaret stayed silent, her glare venomous.
“This is *our* money,” James added. “Hannah’s worked just as hard.”
“So you *used* us,” Margaret hissed. “Lived here, saved up, now you’re off.”
“Mum,” James met her eyes. “We lived in *my* space. Hannah cleaned, cooked, endured your snipes. Who *used* whom?”
“She *ruined* us!” Margaret shouted. “Turned you against me, wormed her way in!”
Hannah stood abruptly. “I never wanted this. I just loved your son. But you never gave me a chance.”
Margaret opened her mouth, but James cut in. “Enough. We’re leaving. Not just this table—but your life. I won’t hear my wife insulted again.”
“James—” Margaret started, but he was already steering Hannah out.
“We leave in three weeks. And I won’t come back until you respect my family.”
Robert followed them out. “I’ll talk to her.”
James just shook his head.
The move was liberation. Their modest flat felt like freedom. Unpacking, Hannah paused. “What if she never changes?”
James hugged her. “Then that’s her loss. We’re building *our* life.”
A month later, the doorbell rang. Robert stood there with a small box. “From Margaret,” he said. “She asked me to deliver this.”
Inside was an old family photo—young James with his parents—and a note: *”I was wrong. Invite us when you’re ready.”*
Hannah looked at James. He stared at the note silently. Outside, spring bloomedSlowly, James picked up the phone and dialed his parents’ number, wondering if this small olive branch could finally mend the rift between them.
