“Who on earth have you brought into this house, son…”
Elizabeth Whitaker had spent all day in the kitchen. She’d prepared his favorite dishes—roast beef with crackling golden skin, buttery mashed potatoes, and a treacle tart cooling on the sill. Today was special—her son, James, was bringing home his fiancée for the first time.
The house gleamed. The tablecloth was pressed to perfection, and the scent of rosemary still lingered from the roast. Elizabeth checked her reflection again, smoothing a loose strand of hair. She wanted so badly to make a good impression.
The latch clicked. She straightened—*“They’re here.”* She moved toward the hall when hushed voices stopped her.
“James, seriously? This is where you grew up? It’s like some relic from the past,” sneered Charlotte with a derisive laugh.
“Shh—Mum will hear you. Come on, don’t—”
“Oh, let her. Maybe she’ll finally realize all this rubbish needs tossing!” With a sharp kick, she struck the antique sideboard in the hall.
Elizabeth stepped forward, her face pale, eyes burning. “How *dare* you? This is my home—not some flea market!”
A heavy silence fell.
Charlotte didn’t apologize. At dinner, she barely touched her plate, wrinkling her nose, muttering about the “dreadfully old-fashioned” decor, insisting they’d never live here without a full *modern* renovation.
Elizabeth felt sick. She rose quietly, stepping onto the terrace, pressing a hand to her chest. For the first time in thirty years, she regretted raising James alone. His father had left when he was just a baby. She’d done it all—work, bills, parenting.
Now, this woman wanted to rip it apart.
When Charlotte announced she was pregnant, Elizabeth stayed silent. She already knew—this marriage would bring nothing but heartache. Their values were worlds apart. But for the baby, for James… She offered, “Stay here. There’s plenty of space. Redo a room however you like.”
“One room isn’t enough!” Charlotte snapped. “We should sell this dump and buy two flats instead.”
Elizabeth’s voice shook. “I won’t let you sell what my parents built their entire lives.”
The next day, James returned with papers. His share of the house. Elizabeth signed without looking.
“Sell it. Do what you want. Just know—you’re not losing bricks and mortar. You’re losing part of your family.”
A week later, Elizabeth was gone. Peacefully, in her sleep. James found her photos on the sill. One of her holding him as a baby beside Gran’s old piano.
He stood in the hollowed-out room, listening to the echoes.
The furniture? Charlotte had already sold it.
Three years on, James lived in his new flat. Alone. Charlotte and the child were long gone. Only the restored oak desk remained, green baize untouched. Beside it—his mother’s photograph. Every night, he whispered silent apologies into the dark.
