“Who are you bringing into this house, son…”
Eleanor Whitaker had spent all day in the kitchen, preparing her son Oliver’s favourite dishes—roast beef with crispy roast potatoes, shepherd’s pie, and a fresh apple tart cooling on the windowsill. Today was special—Oliver was bringing his fiancée home for the first time.
The house gleamed, the tablecloth was pressed to perfection, and Eleanor checked her reflection once more. She smoothed her hair, her heart pounding with the hope that the girl would like her.
The lock clicked. Eleanor straightened up—this was it! She was about to step into the hallway when hushed voices stopped her.
“Oliver, are you serious? This place is like a museum,” scoffed Imogen with a sneer.
“Keep your voice down, Im. Mum will hear—”
“So what if she does? Maybe she’ll finally realise this junk needs throwing out!” Imogen kicked the old wooden sideboard in the hall for emphasis.
“How dare you!” Eleanor strode forward, her face pale, eyes blazing. “You’re in my home, not a charity shop!”
A heavy silence fell.
Imogen didn’t apologise. At dinner, she turned up her nose, barely touched her food, and kept making snide remarks about the “old-fashioned” decor, insisting they’d never live there without a complete renovation.
Eleanor felt sick. She excused herself and stepped onto the patio, pressing a hand to her chest. For the first time in thirty years, she regretted raising Oliver alone. Her husband had left when Oliver was just a baby, and she’d done everything—work, motherhood, the house—all by herself.
And now, some stranger wanted to tear it all down.
When Imogen announced she was pregnant, Eleanor stayed silent. She already knew—this marriage would bring no joy. Their values clashed. But for the sake of the child, for Oliver… she offered, “Live here. The house is big enough. Renovate a room for yourselves.”
“One room isn’t enough!” Imogen snapped. “We want to sell this dump and buy two flats instead.”
“I won’t let you sell what my parents spent their lives building!” Eleanor finally snapped back.
The next day, Oliver returned with legal papers, asking for his share. Without a word, Eleanor signed.
“Sell it. Do what you want. Just know this—when you sell this house, you’re not losing bricks and mortar. You’re losing a piece of your family.”
A week later, Eleanor was gone—quietly, in her sleep. Oliver found her photos on the windowsill. One showed her holding him as a baby by his grandmother’s piano.
He stood alone in the empty house, where only echoes remained.
And the furniture? Imogen had already sold it.
Three years later, Oliver lived alone in a cramped flat. Imogen and their child were long gone. But in the corner stood the old oak table with its faded green cloth, beside it—a framed photo of his mother. And every evening, he whispered his regret into the silence, begging her forgiveness.
Some homes aren’t made of walls—they’re made of love. And once broken, they can never truly be rebuilt.
