“Wouldn’t you take me in with you?” my mother asked, her voice thick with reproach. But I already knew the answer…
My name is Victoria. I’m thirty-eight, married for fifteen years, and my husband, Robert, and I have a son, a lovely home, and what seems like everything one could wish for. Yet one wound still lingers—my mother. Or rather, her decade-long feud with Robert.
Robert came to our town from a tiny village. Back then, he dreamed of university but didn’t get in on his first try, so he took up plumbing to make ends meet. He lived in a student flat, worked hard, and never complained. Eventually, he got into uni, kept working, and became brilliant at his trade. That’s where we met—I was a year ahead, but we clicked instantly.
When I graduated, we decided to marry. My mother was furious.
“A plumber? Have you lost your mind? Some village boy with no prospects!” she snapped.
I convinced her to let us stay in her flat—just until Robert finished his degree. She agreed, grudgingly, her lips tight with disapproval. From day one, she made him unwelcome, no matter how hard he tried. In weeks, he fixed everything—the taps, the oven, even the balcony door that hadn’t shut properly in years. All he got in return was cold shoulders and jabs.
“Don’t think I’ll be putting your name on the lease!” she snapped once. Robert just replied, calmly, “I’m not asking you to.”
He endured it, day after day. But I saw how it wore him down. Then I got pregnant… and the worst happened.
“You’re mad, having a child with that nobody! I can barely stand him under my roof!” she shrieked.
Robert heard. Without a word, he packed his things. Then he turned to me and said, “Come with me, or I go alone. But I won’t stay under the same roof as your mother another day.”
I left. We moved into his tiny student flat. Our son was born. Times were hard, but I never regretted it. Robert worked, studied, took odd jobs. In two years, we bought our first one-bed flat, then a two-bedder. Now we live in a spacious three-bed house. He’s an engineer at a major firm, well-paid, still doing side jobs because his skills are in high demand.
But since that night, Robert has never set foot in my mother’s home. No holidays, no chance meetings—nothing. His words were firm: “I won’t see her. I’ll send money if she needs it, but that’s it. No visits, no small talk.”
For years, she didn’t understand. Even now, she protests:
“Are you really going to let him dictate everything? What if I fall ill? What if I can’t manage alone? Will you abandon me too?”
I brought it up with Robert one evening: “What if she really can’t cope by herself?”
He didn’t hesitate. “We’ll hire a carer. You can visit. She’ll be looked after—but not by me. My line is your doorstep.”
I thought about it. And I realised—he’s right. He doesn’t owe forgiveness to someone who belittled him. He doesn’t owe her repairs when she once mocked him for being a plumber. He’s grown. He’s changed. She hasn’t.
Just last week, she rang in a panic—a leak in her bathroom, demanding I “send Robert over to fix it.”
“Mum,” I said evenly, “Robert’s transferred the money. Call a plumber.”
She hung up, offended. But I don’t regret it.
Sometimes, I think back to that night I left with Robert—the night I chose my family. I chose the man who never let us down, who built everything from nothing and refused to be broken. And I won’t let anyone break him now.
Let her be upset. She had time—and chances. She just never took them.
