“You won’t take me in, will you?” my mother asked resentfully. But I already knew the answer…
My name is Victoria. I’m thirty-eight, married for fifteen years to my husband, James. We have a son, a lovely home, and everything one could wish for—or so it seems. Yet one wound still festers: my mother. Or rather, her endless feud with James, dragging on for over a decade.
James came from a tiny village in the countryside, dreaming of university. When he didn’t get in on his first try, he took a job as a plumber to scrape by. He lived in a cramped flat, worked tirelessly, never complaining. Eventually, he got into university, kept working, and became brilliant at his trade. That’s where we met—I was a year ahead, but we struck a spark.
When I graduated, we decided to marry. My mother was furious.
“A *plumber*? You’ve lost your mind! Some country boy with no prospects, no home of his own!”
I convinced her to let us stay with her—just until James finished his degree. She agreed grudgingly, her face sour. From day one, she scorned him, no matter how hard he tried. In those first weeks, he fixed everything in the flat—the leaky taps, the dodgy oven, even the balcony door that hadn’t shut properly for years. All he got in return was icy disdain.
“Don’t think I’ll be putting your name on the lease!” she snapped once. James just replied, calmly, “I wouldn’t ask.”
He endured it. Every day. But I saw it wear him down. Then I got pregnant… and the worst happened.
“You’re mad! Having a baby with this bumpkin? I can barely stand him in my home!”
James heard. He packed his things without a word, then turned to me.
“Come with me, or I go alone. But I won’t live under the same roof as your mother again.”
I left. We moved into his tiny student flat. Our son was born. It was hard—but I never regretted it. James worked, studied, took odd jobs. Within two years, we bought our first one-bed flat. Then a two-bed. Now we live in a spacious three-bed terrace. James is an engineer at a major firm, well-paid—yet still takes plumbing jobs because his skills are in demand.
But from the day we left, he never set foot in my mother’s home again. No holidays, no chance meetings. He was firm.
“I won’t see her. I’ll send money if she needs it. But nothing more. No visits, no conversations.”
For years, she didn’t understand. Even now, she sulks.
“So you’re just his puppet? What if I fall ill? If I can’t care for myself? Will you abandon me too?”
I took her question home, hesitantly asking James, “What if… she really can’t manage alone?”
His answer was instant.
“Hire a carer. Visit her. She’ll be looked after—but not in our lives. My boundary is your doorstep.”
I thought about it. He was right. He doesn’t owe forgiveness to someone who belittled him. He’s not obliged to fix her pipes after she sneered at him for being a plumber. He grew. He changed. She didn’t.
Recently, she called in a rage—her bathroom pipes were leaking, why hadn’t I *begged* James to come?
“Mum,” I said evenly, “James sent you the money. Call a plumber.”
She hung up. Upset. But I don’t regret it.
Sometimes I think that night—when I walked out with James into the cold—was when I made the real choice of my life. I chose family. I chose the man who never betrayed us, who built everything from nothing, who refused to let bitterness break him. And I won’t let anyone break him now.
Let her be upset. She had time—and chances. She just didn’t take them.
Some lessons come too late, but the price is always paid.
