Mrs. Margaret has just retired. At her workplace, she was warmly farewelled with kind words and good wishes. Yet no one suggested she stay on in her role—not that she wanted to. Enough was enough; it was time to rest.
Two years ago, her beloved husband passed away after a stroke. Her only joy now is her son, James. He doesn’t drink, works as a driver for a large company, and though not yet married, it seems he’s found someone. Mrs. Margaret doesn’t pry, and James keeps quiet.
To keep busy in retirement, she decides to renovate her flat—repaint the walls, replace the carpets, and polish the crystal in the cabinet. When she mentions this to James, he hesitates.
“Mum, there’s something I need to tell you… I’ve decided to get married. We’ll be moving in here. It’s a three-bedroom flat—plenty of space for everyone. The wedding will be at a local café; I’ve saved up a bit. Hold off on the renovations, though. Emma will want to decorate the place her way.”
Mrs. Margaret is stunned. Emma? A wedding? Living together? Quite the surprise.
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“Perhaps you’d introduce me to your fiancée? The wedding’s soon, and you’re only telling me now, James?”
“Mum, Emma’s coming over on Saturday. Could you make dinner?”
Well, her son’s a grown man. He must live his life. Let them stay—she’ll help where she can.
When Emma walks in, she gives Mrs. Margaret a once-over.
“You’re not as old as I imagined. That’s a lovely dress—must be vintage, from the ‘80s? Funny how fashion comes back around.”
Mrs. Margaret doesn’t know how to respond. The dress is nearly new, bought just a few years ago. Emma, a petite blonde, immediately starts inspecting the rooms.
“Right, we’ll toss that cabinet—the crystal’s ghastly. The floors need stripping, these carpets have to go. The bathroom’s dire—I want a proper shower cubicle.” She pauses outside the largest bedroom. “Is this your room? It’s bright and spacious—perfect for us. You can move into the box room. Why do you need all this space?”
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Mrs. Margaret is taken aback.
“Emma, who gave you the right to dictate here? Did you buy this flat? Invest in it? You’re a stranger to me, yet you’re making decisions without my consent?”
“James, I told you your mum wouldn’t like me. Knew this would happen. How can we live in this dump without renovations?”
“Mum, come on—Emma’s right. The place is dated. That cabinet should’ve been binned years ago. We want a modern home.”
“Listen. *You* didn’t buy that cabinet, so *you* don’t get to toss it. Want a modern flat? Work, save, and buy your own. Then do as you please. This is *my* home—I won’t let you take over.”
“Mum, your time’s passed. Let us enjoy our lives. I’ll inherit this flat anyway—why wait? We’re not throwing you out—you’ll have the small room, everything within reach. We’ll care for you in your old age, not abandon you.”
“My time’s passed? Who are *you* to decide for me? I’m not so old yet. I’ll live as *I* choose. This conversation’s over.”
Mrs. Margaret retreats to her room, blood boiling, head spinning. She takes her pills and lies down, listening to the argument next door. Just before the door slams, she hears it—”Old witch!”—Emma’s parting shot.
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James returns the next day for his things, sour-faced.
“That’s it, then, Mum. Enjoy your precious flat. Emma and I will rent. You should be ashamed.”
Mrs. Margaret sees him out, heart heavy. She never thought her only son would speak to her this way. She gave her life to her husband and son—now this. At least his father didn’t live to hear it.
James doesn’t invite her to the wedding—not that she’d go. She finishes her renovations, polishes the crystal, and admires her cabinet. Outdated? Maybe. But it’s hers—a keepsake. No one rules her home but her.
Six months later, James appears with a suitcase.
“Mum, Emma’s left me. Found a wealthier bloke. Says she won’t settle for a pauper. I loved her—what do I do now?”
“Live *your* life, James, not someone else’s. Work, save, buy your own place. This flat? It’s going to my nephew, Michael—he’s got three kids. He doesn’t know yet. As for me? I’ll live as *I* please, and no one will dictate a thing here.”
James realises he’s hurt her deeply—but he doesn’t apologise. In his mind, *she* ruined his marriage. Mrs. Margaret, however, couldn’t care less what he thinks.
