Long Lashes and an Empty House: A Tale of Choosing Wisely
Gather round, folks, and I’ll tell you a story that’d make even the sparrows stop chirping out of sheer curiosity. As the old saying goes, “Don’t buy a pig in a poke—it might turn round and bite you.”
There once lived a kind, hardworking woman in our little town—Margaret Wilkins. She was always busy: tending her garden, scrubbing the house till the floors shone, and cooking a stew so good you’d lick the pot clean. Her son, Thomas, was a good lad too—handy with his hands, warm-hearted, and generous to a fault. But he had one weakness—a heart as soft as fresh-baked bread: he felt for everyone, pitied them all, and when it came to lasses, well, he was downright hopeless.
Then one day, he brought home a girl he’d been seeing—Abigail. She was pretty as a picture, I’ll give her that: big eyes, painted lips, lashes so long they could sweep the floor, and nails like little rakes, just missing the gold leaf. Looked like a proper doll. But as the wise say, “Fine feathers don’t make fine birds.”
Margaret took one look at her and knew something wasn’t right. A mother’s heart, like a guard dog, sniffs out trouble straight away. She pulled Thomas aside and whispered:
“Son, I’ve a bad feeling about her. That one’s got her mind set on money and fun, mark my words.”
And she wasn’t wrong. The first thing Abigail did in the house? Slammed a dirty plate in the sink and flopped onto the sofa. Margaret, who kept a tidy home, gently reminded her:
“Best wash that up.”
Abigail didn’t even blink.
“Don’t fancy ruining my nails.”
Margaret thought she might be joking. But no—she scrubbed that plate herself, and it came out greasier than before.
“Tom, you’re not thinking of marrying her, are you?” Margaret asked, hopeful.
He just smiled dreamily.
“I am. I love her!”
And there’s the rub: “Love is blind, and lovers cannot see.” A few months later, they tied the knot. Margaret, heavy-hearted, handed over the keys to her late mother’s flat—let the young ones have their own space.
Time passed, and Margaret decided to pay them a visit. Oh, dear… What a sight met her eyes! Dust thick as your finger on the furniture, dishes piled sky-high in the sink, socks strewn about like mushrooms after rain. Abigail lounged on the sofa, filing her nails and sighing:
“I’m just finding myself.”
Meanwhile, Thomas was up to his ears in debt—third loan in as many months. Abigail wanted a new car, shiny and flash, so the whole town could see she was a proper lady.
“Who’s footing the bill?” Margaret asked.
“Not your concern,” Abigail snapped. “A husband’s job is to provide. Mine’s to look pretty.”
That’s when Margaret vowed: “Not another penny from me.”
A while later, Thomas came knocking.
“Mum, take out a loan for us?”
She just shook her head.
“No, son. You made your bed—now lie in it.”
He went home and told Abigail the car wasn’t happening. Well, you should’ve heard the row that followed—shrieking, slamming doors loud enough to make the neighbours cross themselves. Abigail wailed that life wasn’t worth living without that car, till Thomas had had enough. He threw her out. Soon after, the divorce papers were signed.
So remember this, my dears: “A house isn’t made by the roof overhead, but by the peace within.” What good’s a wife who can’t lift a finger unless it’s to admire her manicure? Love isn’t just sweet words—it’s caring for each other, working together. Better to live modestly in harmony than in luxury with nothing but shouting and strife.
