What excuse will Mum come up with to be upset this time?
In a quiet little town by the Thames, where life moved at a gentle pace and family traditions ran deep, Catherine found herself brooding over her mother again. “I wonder what she’ll latch onto this time,” the woman thought. “Probably something about how I ruined her life.” But the reason turned out to be different—and it broke her heart all over again.
“Here we go,” Catherine sighed, shooting a weary glance at her husband, James. “Another row. Well, not a row—just her shouting at me. Wouldn’t let me get a word in. No idea what it was about, but one thing’s clear: Mum’s unhappy.”
“And you’re surprised?” James smirked. “Her birthday’s coming up. Remember last month?”
Catherine froze, not quite following.
Then the phone rang—her mother, Margaret, voice sharp with indignation. Her words lashed out like stones.
“Is this how you thank me for everything I’ve done for you? Brilliant! I thought you’d at least drop by after midnight for New Year’s!” she snapped.
“Mum, we always visit the day after,” Catherine protested.
“This year you could’ve made an exception!” Margaret cut her off and slammed the phone down, making it clear the grudge had settled in well before the holiday.
Catherine listened to the dial tone, the familiar ache tightening her chest. This wasn’t new. Margaret had a habit of picking fights five times a year—always just before a big occasion. She’d sulk, vanish, then reappear once gift-giving was irrelevant.
“Mum’s in a strop again,” Catherine muttered, filling James in. “Suddenly decided we should’ve raced over at midnight for New Year’s.”
“That’s daft,” James scoffed. “She’s always been glad to have New Year’s to herself.”
“Try telling her that,” Catherine sighed. “But I’ve got a bad feeling. This has happened before.”
“How d’you mean?” James leaned in, frowning.
“She always kicks off before holidays,” Catherine mused. “Last year, it was two days before our little one’s birthday—didn’t show, no gift. Before that, your milestone birthday—same story. Add up all the rows, it’s a bit odd. But maybe I’m overthinking it.”
James just smirked. He’d long suspected his mother-in-law was dodging gifts. Her timing was too perfect.
Sure enough, Margaret resurfaced once the New Year’s fuss died down. As if nothing happened, she rang Catherine, chirpy, saying she missed them and fancied a visit. The next day, she turned up empty-handed—not even a sweet for the grandkids.
“Bit late for presents now,” she said breezily.
Peace lasted a month and a half. Then, as Mother’s Day loomed, Margaret’s temper flared again.
“Dunno if I should bother with a gift this time,” Catherine sighed.
“Don’t,” James said firmly. “Bet you a tenner she’ll vanish before the day and pop up after.”
“But what if she doesn’t?” Catherine fretted. “Then I’m stuck scrambling for leftovers?”
James hugged her, rubbing her back.
“Trust me, we’ll be gift-free again,” he said dryly.
He was right. The day before Mother’s Day, Margaret erupted—this time over expired cheese Catherine supposedly bought deliberately.
“Selfish, that’s what you are!” she hissed before hanging up.
James looked triumphant. He was sure now: the rows were a gift-dodging tactic.
“Your birthday’s in two weeks,” he chuckled. “Get ready for Act Two of Margaret’s Greatest Hits.”
“What’ll she moan about this time?” Catherine asked nervously. “That I wrecked her life again?”
But the excuse was different. Another shouting match, no chance to speak. Catherine just shrugged, updating James.
“Another blow-up. No clue why. But Mum’s fuming.”
“Well, duh,” James laughed. “Your birthday’s coming. And guess what’s a month after?”
“What?”
“Her birthday!” he grinned. “And she won’t start a row before that. Fancy teaching her a lesson?”
Catherine frowned, confused.
“Fight fire with fire,” James suggested. “Pick a fight over nothing. See how she likes it. Her big day, not ours!”
Catherine mulled it over and agreed. Days before her mother’s birthday, she snapped back, nitpicked, stoked arguments. But Margaret, unfazed, played clueless. Catherine realised: her mum wouldn’t risk missing out—not when a new phone (hinted at for a year) was at stake.
“You don’t love me,” Catherine said pointedly into the phone, feigning hurt.
“Don’t be daft,” Margaret huffed.
“You always do this!” Catherine cried, hanging up, certain her mother wouldn’t call first.
“Bet she turns up for her present?” James held out his hand.
“Twenty quid!” Catherine shot back.
“Oh, you’ll lose,” he laughed. “Margaret won’t sabotage her own gifts.”
Three days later, Margaret stood at their door with a small cake. Catherine paled—James was right.
“If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad,” Margaret said stiffly, handing it over.
In the kitchen, Catherine passed James the money.
“What’s that for?” Margaret asked.
“We bet whether you’d chase your gift after my ‘grudge.’ I lost,” Catherine said flatly.
“Rubbish,” Margaret muttered, flushing.
“You pick fights before our celebrations to skip gifts,” Catherine continued. “I tried the same. But for your phone? You’d crawl here.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Margaret waved her off.
“Mum, when did you last give us anything? Two years back! You start rows to save cash,” Catherine smiled.
“I hadn’t noticed,” Margaret mumbled, playing clueless.
She didn’t leave without her phone. Catherine hoped she’d change—but Margaret only bothered with a dusty old doll for her granddaughter’s birthday. No more gifts followed.
Catherine learned some people never change. But she’d learned to shield her family from their games.