So, the wedding of Thomas and Emily was just around the corner. Their parents were finally meeting for the first time, and Emily’s mum, Margaret, came down for the weekend. That evening, they all gathered round the table at the groom’s mother’s place—a modest three-bed semi on the outskirts of Manchester. They chatted about wedding plans, shared a few jokes, reminisced about the old days. The next morning, as Margaret was packing up to catch her train, Emily walked her out.
“So, what do you think of Thomas?” Emily asked.
“Seems like a good lad,” her mum smiled, then sighed.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Just… keep your distance from his mother. You don’t know the half of it yet.”
Emily frowned, but didn’t press. It wasn’t until a week later that she realised what her mum meant.
When Emily told Thomas she didn’t want to live with his mum, he just shrugged.
“Don’t worry. I already told her she’s on her own. I’m with you.”
Thomas’s mum, Patricia, had retired early. She’d spent most of her son’s childhood in the air—she’d been a flight attendant. Her pension was decent, but never enough for her little luxuries. So she decided: now it was his turn to take care of her.
“I raised you, put you through uni. Your turn now,” she announced when Thomas was just twenty-three.
He agreed, but on one condition—she wouldn’t interfere in his life.
Patricia nodded easily—she’d never been particularly close to him anyway. His grandparents had done most of the raising while she was off on flights or chasing her own love life.
For five years, Thomas paid the bills, keeping her comfortable while she lived it up—designer skincare, shopping sprees, holidays, nights out with the girls. Everything was about her.
When he turned thirty, he brought Emily home. Patricia met her at the door with a bright smile.
“Lovely to have you both moving in! Plenty of space.”
But in her head, she was already thinking, “One more pair of hands to keep the kitchen clean.”
At first, Emily admired her mother-in-law—polished, lively, chatty. But after spending three days with them, Margaret left with a dark warning:
“Emily, love, be careful. That woman’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She only looks out for herself.”
Six months later, it was clear her mum was right.
Patricia fell head over heels. A man named Nigel appeared out of nowhere and practically moved in overnight. Then, come spring, she dropped the bomb.
“You’ve got two weeks to move out. I’m selling the house.”
“What?!” Thomas stared at her.
“I’m moving to Nigel’s place in Brighton. It’s my house, left to me by my parents. Perfectly legal.”
Thomas didn’t argue. He packed up, and he and Emily moved into a rented flat. Patricia sold the house and vanished from their lives—not even a goodbye hug for her son.
A month later, she sent word: she’d remarried. Two months after that, she’d bought a flat by the sea. For two years, they heard nothing.
Then she came back.
“Nigel left me. The money ran out, and he just… disappeared. Sold the flat for nothing. Please, son, I’ve got nowhere to go—”
“You’re not living with us,” Thomas said flatly. “And I’m not renting you a place.”
“You owe me!” she shrieked. “I’m your mother!”
“Just following your lead,” he replied calmly.
At first, she crashed with a friend. Then another. But the money dried up, and so did the invites. Eventually, she turned up on his doorstep again.
“Get a job,” he said. “Rent a room.”
“You’ve no pity for me?”
“No,” Thomas smirked. “You remind me of the grasshopper—all summer, you sang.”
But Patricia wasn’t done. No, she didn’t get a job. She just found a new husband. The first bloke with a flat who’d take her…
But that’s another story.