A dazzling sunbeam pierced through the curtains, illuminating the tense faces around the dining table, yet it failed to melt the icy silence that hung in the spacious living room.
“We’d like to stay here for a couple of years,” Thomas said firmly, masking the tremor in his voice. “It’ll help us save for our own flat.”
Eleanor, seated beside him, fiddled nervously with the edge of the tablecloth. Across from them, Margaret, Thomas’s mother, sat frozen with a knife in hand, as if preparing to slice through their request rather than the bread. Victor, his father, sipped his tea thoughtfully, avoiding eye contact.
“Stay here?” Margaret slowly set the knife down. “With… her?”
“Yes, Mum. With my wife,” Thomas emphasised the last word. “We’re tired of renting. It’s temporary—just until we’ve saved enough for a mortgage.”
“We’ve got the space,” Victor interjected unexpectedly, setting his cup aside. “Two rooms sitting empty. Why not help them out?”
Margaret shot her husband a withering glare. “And was I consulted? Am I supposed to tolerate an outsider in my home?”
“Eleanor isn’t an outsider,” Thomas felt anger simmering inside. “She’s my family.”
“Family!” Margaret scoffed. “This is a passing fancy, Thomas. I see right through her. Do you think she loves you? She wants this house, your money, your inheritance!”
Thomas clenched his fists. This argument wasn’t new. From the moment he’d met Eleanor, his mother had despised her—no reason, no explanation. Perhaps because Eleanor had disrupted the order where Thomas remained firmly under Margaret’s control.
“Mum,” he said, forcing calm into his voice, “a third of this house is mine. Grandma’s will. I’ve 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,” Victor cut in sharply. “Thomas is right. It’s his home too.”
“Then let him live in his third!” Margaret stood abruptly. “The storage room or the balcony!”
Thomas rose slowly, his patience snapping. “Fine. If you won’t agree, I’ll sell my share. And trust me, I’ll find buyers who’ll make you regret it. Imagine living next to ravers or reptile enthusiasts.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed.
“You’ve a week to decide,” Thomas turned toward the door. “Then I’m calling the estate agent.”
In the hallway, he paused, steadying his shaking hands. He’d never challenged his mother like this before. But for Eleanor, for their future, he’d do anything.
Back at their rented flat, Eleanor saw the strain on his face. “How did it go?” she asked, though she already knew.
“Predictable,” he sighed, sinking onto the sofa. “Dad’s on our side. Mum’s against. But I made it clear—we stay, or I sell.”
Eleanor frowned. “Thomas, maybe we shouldn’t push—”
“No,” he cut her off. “I won’t back down. She has to accept you.”
A week passed with no response. On the eighth day, Thomas called the estate agent. “I want to sell my third of the house. Fast and cheap.”
Three days later, the first “buyers” arrived—two burly men with tattoos and the lingering smell of beer. Victor greeted them with a smile. “Come in, have a look! Prime location, great property!”
“Where’s our bit, then?” one grunted, eyeing the living room. “Sleep in the loo?”
“That’s a legal matter,” Victor winked. “Technically, it’s shared ownership.”
Margaret, hearing the commotion, stormed in. “Who are these people?” she demanded, voice shaking with outrage.
“Potential buyers, love,” Victor replied smoothly. “Interested in Thomas’s share.”
“Get out!” she shrieked. “No one’s invading my home!”
The next visitors were worse—an eccentric couple gushing about their tropical beetle collection. Margaret blanched at the mention of “harmless spiders the size of teacups.” The third group, a man fond of midnight drumming meditations, was the final straw.
On the fourth day, Margaret cracked. She called Thomas. “You’re seriously selling to these lunatics?”
“I warned you,” he replied coldly. “You had your chance.”
“Fine,” she forced out. “Bring your Eleanor. But my rules stand!”
That evening, Thomas went alone to negotiate. Eleanor stayed behind—he wouldn’t subject her to more humiliation.
“Name your terms,” he said, meeting his mother’s glare.
“None of her things in the shared spaces,” Margaret began. “If she cooks, she cleans. No guests!”
“Now mine,” Thomas crossed his arms. “We take the spare bedroom and study. Equal use of the house. And most importantly—you stop insulting her. One slur, 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. Victor helped carry boxes. “Here’s your room. Settle in.”
“Cheers, Dad.” Thomas hugged him.
Margaret stood aside, arms folded. Eleanor tried reaching out. “Hello, Margaret. Thank you for having us.”
“Don’t mention it,” Margaret snapped, retreating to the kitchen.
The silent war began immediately. Margaret avoided Eleanor, communicating only through Thomas or Victor. She hid dishes, vacuumed at dawn when they slept, and scrutinised Eleanor’s cleaning.
Eleanor endured it—doing laundry, cooking dinners, hoping for even a shred of respect. Then she found her notebook torn in the bin. Another day, her face cream smeared in the sink.
“She hates me,” Eleanor admitted after two months. “Maybe we should leave.”
“No,” Thomas said. “We won’t surrender. I’ll talk to her.”
The conversation was brutal. Thomas reminded Margaret of his threat to sell. She exploded. “You’ve changed, Thomas! Blackmailing me over that girl!”
“It’s not blackmail,” he said firmly. “It’s boundaries. Stop tormenting Eleanor, or I follow through.”
Margaret became subtler but didn’t relent. She spread rumours among neighbours, painting Eleanor as lazy and gold-digging. The gossip stung, each whisper tightening Eleanor’s chest.
Unexpectedly, Victor became her ally. He admired her efforts and sincerity. They chatted about travel, old films, even his youth.
“Don’t take it to heart,” he said once. “Margaret’s afraid you’ll take her son away.”
“I’m not taking him,” Eleanor whispered. “I just love him.”
“She’ll see that,” Victor smiled. “Give her time.”
But time didn’t help. Margaret’s sabotage continued—ruining groceries, cutting the Wi-Fi during Eleanor’s remote work. Eleanor bore it, focusing on their savings. A mortgage grew closer.
A year and a half later, on a chilly March evening, Thomas returned with news. “We did it! Two-bed flat, mortgage approved. We move next month!”
Victor raised a glass at dinner. “To your new home!”
Margaret stayed silent, her expression unreadable.
“This is all ours,” Thomas added pointedly. “Eleanor worked just as hard as I did.”
“So you used us,” Margaret said icily. “Lived here, saved up, now you’re leaving.”
“Mum,” Thomas met her gaze, “we lived in my share. Eleanor cleaned, cooked, endured your cruelty. Who used whom?”
“She destroyed our family!” Margaret burst out. “Turned you against me, invaded our lives!”
Eleanor stood, trembling. “I never wanted this. I just loved your son. You never gave me a chance.”
Margaret opened her mouth, but Thomas cut in. “Enough. We’re leaving. Not just this table—your life. I won’t hear my wife insulted again.”
“Thomas—” Margaret began, but he was already guiding Eleanor out.
“We leave in three weeks. And I won’t return until you respect my family.”
Victor saw them to the door. “I’ll talk sense into her.”
Thomas shook his head.
The move felt like freedom. Their small flat brimmed with possibility. Unpacking, Eleanor paused. “Thomas, what if she never changes?”
He hugged her. “That’s her choice. We’ll live our lives.”
A month later, the doorbell rang. Victor stood there with a small box. “From Margaret,” he said, handing it over.
Inside was an old family photo—Thomas as a boy with his parents—and a note: “I was wrong. Invite us when you’re ready.”
Eleanor looked at Thomas. He stood silent, holding the note. Outside, spring blossomed, their flat smelling of fresh paint and hope. Maybe time could mend things. But that was another story—one they’d write together.
