It would have been better if the bride hadn’t brought her parents along—after that meeting, everything became painfully clear.
When our son Thomas brought home a girl named Eleanor, my husband and I were pleased. She seemed modest, well-mannered, and pleasant. Not a beauty from the pages of a magazine, but charming—she listened well, smiled warmly, and chose her words with care. More importantly, she wasn’t idle: she studied at the same university as Thomas, helped him with his coursework, and took a genuine interest in his field. At the time, we truly thought our boy was lucky.
We weren’t wealthy. My husband worked as an engineer at the local factory, and I was the head nurse at the district clinic. We lived modestly but comfortably—a three-bedroom house in Coventry, a small cottage near Stratford, and an old but reliable Morris parked outside. Money had never been our priority, but when the topic of housing came up in conversation with Eleanor, I couldn’t help but notice the sudden spark in her eyes. It flashed through my mind then, but I dismissed it. A mistake, as it turned out.
Eleanor came from a village outside Cheltenham. Her parents, by her own account, were simple folk—her mother a shop assistant, her father working at a sawmill. It wasn’t their background that troubled us—we were never ones to put on airs. But from the very first meeting with her parents, something in me recoiled.
It started when we agreed to meet the following Saturday. I went to the shops, buying meat, salads, and fruit, wanting to set a proper table—bread and salt, as it were, a welcoming spread. But when I returned home, I froze in the doorway. The guests were already seated in the parlour, making themselves at home. They had arrived nearly three hours early. My husband greeted them in his dressing gown, barely having had time to change. “I didn’t know what to do,” he whispered. “They were already at the door, bags in hand…”
Eleanor’s mother was a loud woman, confident to the point of arrogance. From the moment she stepped inside, she “jested”:
“What’s this? The table isn’t even set? And here we thought we were guests.”
I forced a tight smile. A joke? Perhaps. But her tone carried the sting of a backhanded slap. I hurried to the kitchen to finish preparing the meal. Over supper, the conversation flowed—small talk about the weather, the city, university life. But it was obvious who held the reins in their family. Eleanor’s mother dominated, her father sat quietly at the edge, nodding along. Even our son seemed unsure how to react.
Then came the real purpose of their visit:
“We were thinking… Young people ought to live together first, don’t they? To get used to one another. And you’ve got a three-bedroom house, haven’t you? Eleanor’s suffering in those student halls—cockroaches, noisy flatmates. Renting is too dear, and why bother when she could stay here?”
She added, as if offering a favour:
“Eleanor’s a good girl, not spoiled. She cooks well, she’ll help with the children, she’ll keep the house—she’ll be a godsend to you. You’re lucky!”
I nearly dropped the knife in my hand. So, they’d already decided their daughter wouldn’t just move in but would take over as if it were her right? And we were expected to welcome it with open arms?
While I sat there struggling to process it, my husband silently poured the tea. Later, once the guests had left, we exchanged a look. I asked,
“You heard all that too, didn’t you?”
“Every word,” he nodded. “Felt like we were just pieces in their little plan. All smiles, but there’s calculation underneath.”
“I don’t want our son to become a stepping stone,” I said quietly. “She’s not here for love—she’s here for an easier life.”
My husband only sighed.
“Good luck making him see that now. He’s smitten. You could shout it in his ear, and he wouldn’t hear a word.”
Now I’m at a loss. Do I speak plainly to Thomas? Risk angering him, driving him away until he shuts us out completely? Or do I stay silent and wait for him to realise the truth on his own?
Deep down, I know—this isn’t the sort of girl who will stand by him in hardship. Not one who will build a home, offer support, raise children in love. She isn’t looking for a man—just the trappings. A house, a room, a stocked fridge, a free kitchen and washing machine. And our son? Merely the means to that end.
Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps she does love him. But if that’s true—why does it all feel like a transaction?
What would you do? Should we step in? Or wait and hope he sees for himself who she truly is?