The Mother-in-Law I Stopped Answering the Door For
Tom and Emily’s wedding was just around the corner. The parents were finally meeting, and the bride’s mother, Margaret Whitmore, came to stay for the weekend. That evening, they gathered around the table at the groom’s mother’s place—a modest three-bedroom terrace house on the outskirts of Manchester. They chatted about wedding plans, shared jokes, and reminisced about their younger days. The next morning, as Margaret prepared to leave for the train station, Emily stepped out to see her off.
“So, what do you think of Tom?” the young woman asked.
“Lovely lad,” her mother replied with a faint smile before sighing heavily.
“Mum, what’s wrong?”
“Just keep your distance from his mother. There’s more to her than you realize.”
Emily frowned in confusion but didn’t press further. It wasn’t until a week later that she understood what Margaret had meant.
When Emily told Tom she didn’t want to live with his mother, he simply shrugged.
“Don’t worry. I’ve already told her she’s on her own. I’m with you.”
Tom’s mother, Patricia Holloway, had retired early. She’d spent most of her son’s childhood in the skies—a flight attendant by trade. Her pension was decent, but never enough for her indulgences. So she decided her son would foot the bill.
“I raised you, put you through school. Now it’s your turn,” she declared when Tom turned just twenty-three.
He agreed, on one condition—she wouldn’t interfere in his life.
Patricia easily agreed. She’d never been particularly close to her son anyway. His grandparents had done most of the raising while she hopped between flights and fleeting romances.
For five years, Tom dutifully paid the mortgage, covering her expenses while she lived lavishly—designer skincare, shopping sprees, holidays, nights out with friends. Everything was for herself.
When he turned thirty, he brought Emily home. Patricia greeted her at the door with a dazzling smile.
“Lovely, you’ll be staying with me. Plenty of space.”
But inwardly, she thought, *At least the kitchen’s free now.*
At first, Emily admired her mother-in-law—well-kept, lively, sociable. But after a three-day visit, Margaret left with a cryptic warning:
“Be careful, love. That woman’s a master of pretence. She only thinks of herself.”
Six months later, it became clear she was right.
Patricia fell in love. A man named Nigel appeared out of nowhere and practically moved in overnight. Come spring, she made her demand:
“You’ve got two weeks to move out. I’m selling the house.”
*”What?!”* Tom stared at her.
“I’m moving to Nigel’s place in Brighton. The house is mine—my parents’ gift. It’s all legal.”
Tom didn’t argue. He packed his things and moved with Emily into a rented flat. Patricia sold the house and vanished from their lives without so much as a goodbye hug.
A month later, she announced she’d married Nigel. Two months after that, she’d bought a seafront flat. For two years, they heard nothing.
Then she returned.
“Nigel left me. Ran through my money and disappeared. Sold the house for nothing. Help me, son—I’ve got nowhere to go—”
“You’re not living with us,” Tom said flatly. “And I won’t be renting you a place.”
“You owe me!” she snapped. “I’m your mother!”
“Just following your example,” he replied coolly.
First, she crashed with one friend. Then another. But the money dried up, and so did their patience. So she came back to Tom.
“Get a job,” he told her. “Rent a room.”
“Don’t you feel sorry for me?”
“No,” Tom smirked. “You remind me of the grasshopper… the one who sang all summer.”
But Patricia wasn’t down for long. No, she didn’t get a job. She just found another husband—the first bloke with a flat who’d have her.
But that’s another story entirely.
