Overheard My Husband’s Chat with His Mum and Realised Why He Really Married Me

I overheard my husbands conversation with his mother and finally understood why hed really married me.

Ian, have you seen my blue folder of documents? Im certain I left it on the dresser, but now there are only your magazines piled there.

Beatrice frantically rifled through a stack of paperwork in the hallway, glancing at the clock every few seconds. Forty minutes remained until the crucial board meeting, and the traffic on the M25 was already coiling into thick, scarlet serpents on the GPS. She loathed being late. After fifteen years as finance director of a major construction firm, punctuality had become a second skin, etched into her instincts.

Ian emerged from the kitchen, chewing a ham sandwich. He wore the soft, velour, navyblue lounge suit that Beatrice had given him for his last birthdaythe one that made his blue eyes sparkle. At thirtytwo he looked impeccable: fit, freshfaced, a trendy haircut. Beside him stood Beatrice, who had turned fortythree the previous month and sometimes felt out of place despite pricey creams, regular visits to the dermatologist and a strict gym regimen.

Darling, why are you panicking? he said, smiling gently as he brushed crumbs from his chin. I moved it to the shelf in the cupboard so it wouldnt gather dust. You know I love order. Ill fetch it now.

He darted, boyishly, to the builtin cupboard and, a heartbeat later, handed her the missing folder.

Thanks, love! Beatrice planted a kiss on his cheek, scented with aftershave lotion. What would I do without you? Thats it, Im off. Theres a dinner in the fridgeheat it up. Ill be late; we have an audit looming.

Good luck, my queen! he called after her as she hurried to the stairwell.

In the lift, Beatrice smiled at her reflection. How lucky she was. Three years ago, after a bruising, messy divorce from her first husband who had drained every ounce of her spirit, she never imagined romance again. Then Ian appeared: young, ambitious, a modest carsales manager who didnt reach for the stars but was undeniably attentive. He showered her with unsolicited flowers, breakfast in bed, compliments. Friends whispered that it was a golddigging match, that he wanted her flat and her money. Beatrice brushed it off. Could the spark in her eyes be counterfeit? Could three years of pretense be sustained?

She slipped into her estate car, tossed the folder onto the passenger seat and turned the key. Her gaze fell on the back seat, where a bag of drycleaning itemsforgotten from the day beforelay. Inside the coat pocket, a second phoneher work handsetwaited, the one auditors were supposed to call.

Blast! she muttered aloud.

She cut the engine and turned back. The lift crawled upward at a treacherous pace. She unlocked the front door with a quiet click, trying not to disturb Ian, who was already settling at his laptop for another project.

She stepped into the hallway and heard her husbands voice drifting from the living room. Ian was speaking loudly, his tone heavy, as if pacing the room.

Mother, stop nagging! I told you everythings on track! Ians voice rang with irritation, a stark contrast to the tenderness hed shown minutes earlier.

Beatrice froze, hand hovering over the coat rack. The tone was alien, unfamiliar. She knew eavesdropping was rude, yet her feet felt glued to the parquet.

What does she want anyway? Ian continued, his voice rising. Mother, are you even listening? Im not a fool. Ive put up with this old woman for three years just to avoid losing a cottage.

Beatrices breath caught; a cold sphere seemed to explode in her chest. Old woman? He was calling her that?

Yes, Mother, Ill bear it a while longer! Ian laughed, a sound that scraped like metal. Do you see her without plaster? No injection will help now. Every night, when I lie down, I picture myself back at work. I have to pay the harm and hand over the milk!

Beatrice pressed a palm to her mouth, stifling a scream. Tears burst, smearing her mascara. She wanted to storm the room, strike him, send him away. Yet an icy, hostile force held her fast. She had to listen, to learn the whole truth.

Soon everything will pay off, Ians voice turned dreamy. She mentioned yesterday that she wants to transfer the country house to me. The one in Silver Grove. She says itll be a weddinganniversary gift. Imagine the price! Ive already called the estate agent. If we sell, well have enough for a central London flat for you, capital for my business, and still enough to get us out of here. And Len what will Len do? Shell cry, then settle. Shes strong; shell earn again.

On the line, someone asked a question, and Ian began to justify.

Dont pity her! Remember at your anniversary how she warned you about salads? Mayonnaise is harmful, cholesterol! She turned into an aristocrat. Sometimes I hate her so much my teeth hurt, especially when she lectures me: Ian, develop yourself, read books. Ugh!

Beatrice slipped down the wall, crouching. The hallway echoed with three years of lies. Every I love you, every embrace, every bouquet had been an investment. He was waiting for a big payoff. The country house, inherited from her father, was worth a small fortune, and she had indeed considered transferring it to her husband so he could feel like a proprietor, not a freeloader. How foolish shed been!

Alright, Mother, thats enough, Ian said. She might return, forgetting something forever in the clouds. Ill call you this evening when shes asleep. I love you. Youre the only woman Id do this for.

Footsteps crept toward the kitchen. Mustering her resolve, Beatrice slipped out of the flat, closing the door gently behind her.

In the entrance hall, she pressed her forehead against the cold stone wall. Her heart hammered somewhere in her throat, a fine shivering tremor coursing through her. What now? Return and cause a scene? He would twist the story, claim shed misunderstood, call it a joke, blame a boss

She wiped her face with the cuff of her expensive coat. She was a finance director; she could calculate, plan, and strike when the opponent least expected. He wanted a game? Hed get one.

She descended to the car, stared into the rearview mirror. Her eyes were red, mascara smeared. Old woman, she whispered. Three years of tolerance. Well then, Ian. Lets see who endures whom.

She didnt go to work. She called her deputy, said she felt unwell, and asked them to run the meeting without her. Instead, she drove to a small café on the outskirts, a place no one could follow her to. She needed a plan.

That evening Beatrice returned home as usual, bags of groceries in hand, a practiced smile on her face that cost her dearly.

Ian met her in the hallway, leaning in for a kiss. Beatrice barely restrained herself from recoiling. She offered her cheek, trying not to inhale his scent. Now it smelled of rot beneath a pricey perfume she herself had bought him.

Tired, love? he asked, taking the bags. Ive prepared dinnerseafood pasta, just as you like it.

Thanks, dear, she replied, voice a little hoarse but steady. My heads pounding. The office feels like a madhouse.

During dinner she watched him ladle salad, pour wine, gaze into her with a clear, honest look, while the phrase I have to pay the harm echoed in her mind.

Ian, she began, swirling the glass, Ive been thinking a lot about us today.

Ian tensed, a flicker of fear flashing across his eyes for a split secondshe caught it.

What about, love?

About the house in Silver Grove. Remember we talked about it?

Ians face smoothed, a predatory gleam lighting his eyes, quickly masked by a soft smile.

Of course I remember. But you know I dont need anything from you. The fact were together is what matters.

Right, she said, nodding. But I want to do something meaningful for you, to make you feel secure. Ill handle the paperwork next week and transfer it to your name.

Ian almost dropped his fork. He tried to stay calm, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward.

Beatrice, thats a serious step Are you sure? Maybe we shouldnt rush.

Im sure. Youre my husband, my rock. Who else? Will your mother mind? Should we invite her for lunch this weekend to celebrate my decision? I want her to know how much I value you.

Mother? Ian brightened. Sure! Shell be thrilled. She always says, What a wise lady you are, Beatrice.

Beatrice lowered her gaze, suppressing a sly grin.

Great then. Let her come Saturday. Ill cook something special.

The next three days became a finely tuned torment. She slept in the same bed, endured his touches, listened to his chatter. Yet the goal gave her strength. Shed already consulted a solicitor and knew exactly what to do.

Saturday arrived. Margaret, Ians mother, arrived in full pomp, wearing a blouse with ruffles and a heavy brooch she only ever displayed on holidays. She radiated saccharine goodwill.

Beatrice, darling, youve lost so much weight! Working so hard, no selfpity, she chirped as she entered. Ian says you want to treat us to something?

Please, come in, Beatrice invited, guiding them to the table.

The spread was lavish: roast duck, salads, caviar, fine wine. Ian bustled about, attending to the guests, but Beatrice saw the anxiety flicker in his eyes. He awaited the main coursetalk of property.

When the appetizers cleared and Ian poured wine, Beatrice tapped her fork against the crystal, demanding attention.

My dear ones, she began ceremoniously, Ive gathered you today for a purpose. Youre my family, and I wish to share my plans.

Ian and Margaret froze, eyes wide like rabbits staring at a snake. Margarets hand tightened around a napkin.

You know I own a house in Silver Grove, Beatrice continued, savoring the moment. Ian and I have discussed transferring it.

Yes, dear, a very wise decision, Margaret cooed. A man should feel like a homeowner; it strengthens the marriage.

Exactly, Beatrice agreed. Thats why this morning I met with the solicitor.

Ian leaned forward, greed glinting in his gaze.

And? he prompted.

Beatrice paused theatrically. I realized that in these uncertain times you shouldnt put all your eggs in one basket. So instead of simply transferring the house, I chose a more forwardthinking route.

Hows that? Ians smile faltered.

I sold the house this morning. The deals closed, the funds transferred.

A heavy silence fell, broken only by the ticking of a hallway clock. Margaret opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

Sold? But how? Without me? We had an agreement you said?

I said Id handle the paperwork, Beatrice replied, blinking innocently. A very attractive buyer offered double the price, on the condition of an immediate sale. I couldnt pass up the chance.

Wheres the money? Margaret demanded, shedding her feigned kindness.

Oh, the money! Beatrice smiled brightly. I donated it to a charity for women survivors of domestic abuse. All of it!

The crash of a shattered glass pierced the silence. Ian leapt up, overturning his chair. Red wine spilt across the pristine tablecloth like a bloodstain.

Youve gone mad! he roared, his face twisted with fury. What charity? These are my money! My house! You promised me!

Yours? Beatrices smile vanished, her face hard as stone. Since when does property my father left become yours, Ian?

Beatrice, this is a joke? Margaret whimpered, clutching her chest. Tell me youre joking. You couldnt do this to the family!

With the family I could, Beatrice replied calmly. But with parasites, absolutely.

Ian stood, breathing heavily, fists clenched. The mask finally fell. Before Beatrice stood not a loving husband but a furious, betrayed opportunist.

You knew everything, he guessed, eyes locked on hers. You were watching me?

Why watch? All I needed was to come home, hear you call me old woman you tolerate for a cottage. Hear you plot with your mother how to sell my inheritance and flee.

Margaret paled, sinking into a chair, trying to become invisible. Ian was speechless, trapped. He realized the hand that had been caught.

So, Beatrice rose. The circus is over. I didnt sell the house, nor did I give money to a charity. It was a test, and you both failed spectacularly. Your true naturerotten and greedyhas been exposed.

You witch! Margaret shrieked. Youve tormented us! My son wasted his best years on you! You owe him your life! Who do you think you are, old hanger?

Out, Beatrice said softly.

What? Ian asked, bewildered.

Out of my house. Both of you. Now.

This is my house too! Ian protested. Im on the lease! Were married! Ill split the assets!

Split? Beatrice laughed. The flat was bought before marriage. The car is on the company. All youve got are your underwear and socks. As for the lease Ill evict you through the courts in two accounts. But if you dont leave this instant, Ill upload the recording of this conversation online. Yes, I installed a hidden camera and microphone in the hallway a few months ago for security. Im sure your current employer and future lovers would love to hear how loving you truly are.

It was a bluff. No camera existed, but Ian didnt know. The fear of public disgrace and reputation loss outweighed his greed.

Gather your things, Mother, he muttered, not looking at his wife.

But Ian! Are we just leaving like that? Margaret wailed.

Were leaving, Mother! Lets go!

Youll take the stuff later when Im not home. Hand the keys to the concierge, and make sure our spirit doesnt linger here ten minutes later, Beatrice called after them, her voice steady.

They fled, cursing, Ian stamping his boots in the hallway. Beatrice stood in the livingroom doorway, arms crossed, watching the filth of her life drift away.

When the door slammed shut, she poured herself a full glass of wine. Her hands trembled, not with fear but with adrenalines release.

She took a sip, walked to the window, and looked down. A few minutes later two figures emerged from the entrance hall: a stout woman in a bright coat and a slumped man arguing, arms flailing.

Beatrice finished her wine and laughed, loud and free.

Old woman, you say? she told her reflection in the dark glass. Well, that old woman just saved a million pounds and a heap of nerves. Lifes just beginning, Ian. Just beginning.

The next day she filed for divorce. The process was swift and dirty for Ianhe tried to claim even the coffee machine, but the prenuptial agreement (which Beatrice had forced him to sign three years ago, despite his love) and seasoned solicitors left him with nothing.

She changed the locks, renovated the bedroom, tossed out the hateful bed, and finally drove to her house in Silver Grove. Alone on the terrace, she sipped mint tea and listened to birdsong. She wasnt lonely; she was at peace. She knew she would never again let anyone use her. If love ever returned, it would be a love of equals, not a transaction disguised as romance.

And the house? She kept it. A reminder that she was the master of her own destiny.