The moment she spat out, “If this isn’t *my* house, I won’t lift a finger!”—that was when I saw everything clearly.
Once, I’d seriously considered transferring the deed of one of my flats to my son. I thought it would give him and his wife stability, a fresh start without the burden of rent. But after what I witnessed from his wife, the very idea now churns my stomach. No, let them save their own money. The flat stays mine. And if they ever divorce? I’ll breathe a sigh of relief. Because it’s not just disapproval—I’m *afraid* of his choice. His wife, Gemma, turned out to be nothing short of a nightmare.
Her family’s ordinary, without privilege or connections, yet she carries herself like royalty raised in some grand estate. Her parents are decent, hardworking folk—nothing like their daughter, who acts as though the world owes her. She’s got a basic education, works as an office manager on an average salary, yet she burns through money like wildfire. Within days of payday, she’s skint, shamelessly begging my son for more. Every. Single. Month.
When their landlord evicted them after the wedding, I took pity and let them stay with me until my other flat—occupied by tenants at the time—was free. I didn’t *have* to. I did it for my son. And I regretted it almost instantly. The second Gemma stepped inside, her face twisted in disgust, scanning my home like it was some derelict hovel. Never mind that the place was spotless, well-organized, freshly painted.
“Am I supposed to sleep on the *sofa?* Couldn’t your mother at least give us the bed?” she snipped at him.
The *sofa* wasn’t good enough? Funny, she’d slept on worse in rentals before without complaint. And my son—always so strong-willed, so sure of himself—had become a doormat around her. Bending to her whims, tolerating her tantrums. I barely recognized him. What kind of hold did she have over him?
Those months under one roof were pure torment. After work, I’d retreat to my room, praying to avoid her perpetual scowl. Silence between us was a mercy.
When they finally moved into the other flat, I took my first full breath in months. Then, cautiously, my son started fishing for hints. “Mum, any plans for that flat? You ever think of putting it in my name?” I knew instantly whose idea that was. Gemma’s whispers in his ear. My answer was firm:
“It stays in *my* name. It’s my safety net for old age, so I’m not a burden to you. Live there, save up for your own place. Besides, it’s not ideal for a young couple—old layout, small rooms.”
He seemed to accept that. The topic died, and we saw less of each other. Life moved on. I kept my distance.
Then, last week, he invited us for his birthday at their place. I walked in—and froze. The state of it turned my stomach. The cooker was caked in grease, as if no one had scrubbed it in years. Sticky floors, dust thick enough to write in, unpacked boxes left to rot. Even the guests exchanged uneasy glances.
Gemma’s mother, ever discreet, murmured, “Gemma, love… why’s the house in such a state?”
Gemma’s reply shattered any lingering hope:
“Why should *I* bother? It’s not *my* house, is it? I’m not lifting a finger in someone else’s place.”
Her own mother was speechless.
“You kept rentals clean before!” she protested weakly.
My son stood there, jaw tight. I saw it in his eyes—the same revulsion I felt. He was raised in a home where cleanliness mattered. Now he was drowning in *this*. But he stayed silent. Because once, he’d loved her. That spark was gone now. All that remained was habit. Or fear.
I didn’t say a word to Gemma. Just held her gaze, cold and steady. He won’t endure this forever. And deep down? I’m waiting for the day he walks away. Yes, it’s bitter to admit, but I’ll *celebrate* that divorce. Because my son deserves more than indifference and scorn. He deserves warmth. Devotion. A *real* woman. Not this spoiled girl who can’t even muster gratitude.
