“Who have you brought into my home, son?”
Eleanor Whitaker had spent all day in the kitchen. She’d prepared his favourite dishes—roast beef with crispy potatoes, fresh Yorkshire puddings, and treacle tart for dessert. Tonight was special—her son, James, was bringing his fiancée home for the first time.
The house sparkled. The tablecloth was pressed, the cake cooling on the windowsill. Eleanor adjusted her hair in the mirror again, heart fluttering. She wanted so badly for this to go well.
The lock clicked. Eleanor straightened—**they were here.** She moved to greet them, but hushed voices stopped her.
“James, seriously? This is your place?” Lucy’s laugh was sharp. “It’s like a museum.”
“Keep your voice down—Mum will hear. Don’t be like this.”
“Oh, let her! Maybe she’ll finally toss out all this junk.” A sharp kick sent an old sideboard rattling.
**”What on earth do you think you’re doing?”** Eleanor stepped into the hall, face pale, eyes blazing. “You are a guest in my house—have some respect.”
Silence fell, thick and heavy.
Lucy didn’t apologise. At dinner, she picked at her food, sneered at the “stuffy” decor, and made it clear they wouldn’t live here unless they gutted the place.
Eleanor’s chest tightened. She stood, wordless, stepping onto the patio, hand pressed over her heart. For the first time in thirty years, she regretted raising James alone. His father had left before his first birthday. She’d done everything—work, parenting, keeping this house alive.
And now a stranger wanted to tear it down.
When Lucy announced she was pregnant, Eleanor stayed silent. She already knew—this marriage wouldn’t bring happiness. Their values were too different. But for the baby, for James… she offered, **”Stay here. The house is big enough. Renovate a room for yourselves.”**
“One room isn’t enough!” Lucy snapped. “We’ll sell this relic and buy two flats instead.”
**”I won’t let you sell what my parents built with their lives!”** Eleanor’s voice broke.
The next day, James returned with papers. He wanted his share. Eleanor signed without looking.
**”Sell it. Do what you must. Just know—you’re not losing bricks and mortar. You’re losing family.”**
A week later, Eleanor was gone. Quiet, in her sleep. James found her photos on the windowsill—one of her holding him as a baby by his grandmother’s piano.
He stood in the empty room, hearing only echoes.
The furniture? Lucy had already sold it.
Three years on, James lived alone in a cramped flat. Lucy and the child were gone. Only one thing remained—the old oak table, restored, with its green baize. Beside it, his mother’s photograph. Every night, he whispered apologies she’d never hear.
