The wedding of Thomas and Emily was just around the corner. The parents were finally due to meet, and the bride’s mother, Margaret Stevens, had come to stay for the weekend. That evening, they gathered around the table at the groom’s mother’s place—a modest semi-detached house on the outskirts of Manchester. They chatted about wedding plans, shared jokes, and reminisced about their younger days. By morning, as her guest prepared to leave for the station, Emily stepped out to see her off.
“How do you find Thomas?” she asked.
“Lovely lad,” her mother smirked, then sighed heavily.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Just keep your distance from his mother. There’s more to her than you know.”
Emily stared in confusion but held her tongue. Only a week later did she grasp what her mother had meant.
When Emily told Thomas she didn’t want to live with his mother, he simply shrugged.
“Don’t fret. I’ve already told her she’ll be on her own. I’m with you.”
Thomas’s mother, Eleanor Whitmore, had retired early. She’d spent most of his childhood in the skies—a flight attendant with years of service behind her. Her pension was comfortable, but never enough for her lavish whims. So she decided: now her son would foot the bill.
“I raised you, put you through school. Your turn now,” she declared when he was barely twenty-three.
He agreed—on one condition. She wouldn’t interfere in his life.
Eleanor had no trouble consenting. Her son had never been particularly close to her anyway. He’d been raised mostly by her parents while she jetted off on trips or chased after fleeting romances.
For five years, Thomas dutifully paid the rent, keeping his mother afloat while she lived as she pleased—expensive creams, shopping sprees, holidays, endless lunches with friends. All for herself.
By the time he turned thirty, he brought Emily home. His mother greeted them at the door with a broad smile.
“How lovely you’ll be staying with me! Plenty of space.”
But silently, she thought, *At least the kitchen will be free.*
Emily was charmed at first—well-groomed, lively, full of chatter. But after three days under her roof, Margaret left with a cryptic warning:
“Emily, be careful. That woman’s a performer. She only ever thinks of herself.”
Half a year later, it became clear she was right.
Eleanor fell in love. A man named Geoffrey appeared out of nowhere and just as swiftly moved in. Then, come spring, she dropped the bombshell.
“You’ve got two weeks to clear out. I’m selling the house.”
*”What?!”* Thomas was stunned.
“I’m moving to Cornwall with Geoffrey. This house was my parents’ gift to me. Perfectly legal.”
Thomas didn’t argue. He packed up and moved into a rented flat with Emily. His mother vanished from their lives, selling the house without so much as a goodbye hug.
A month later, she announced her marriage. Two months after that, she’d bought a seaside flat. For two years, silence.
Then she was back.
“Geoffrey left me. The money’s gone—he vanished with it. Selling the house was a mistake. You *must* help me. I’ve nowhere to go—”
“You won’t be living with us,” Thomas said flatly. “And I won’t be renting you a place.”
“You *owe* me!” she shrieked. “I’m your mother!”
“I’m only following your example,” he replied coolly.
First, she stayed with one friend. Then another. But her funds dried up, and so did their hospitality. Desperate, she returned.
“Find a job,” he said. “Rent a room.”
“Don’t you *feel* for me?”
“No,” Thomas scoffed. “You remind me of that grasshopper… the one who sang all summer.”
But Eleanor wasn’t done. No, she didn’t get a job. Instead, she found another husband—the first man with a flat to his name.
But that’s another story entirely.
