My ex-husband promised our son a flat but with one condition—I must marry him again.
I’m sixty years old and live in York. Never in my wildest dreams did I think that after all I’d been through, twenty years of silence would be broken with such audacity. And the most painful part? The instigator of this upheaval is none other than my own son.
Once upon a time, at twenty-five, I was madly in love. James—a tall, charming, and lively guy—seemed like the embodiment of my dreams. We married quickly, and within a year, our son, Tom, was born. The first few years felt like a fairy tale. We lived in a small flat, dreaming and planning together. I worked as a teacher, and he was an engineer. It seemed as if nothing could shatter our happiness.
But over time, James began to change. He stayed out late, lied, and grew distant. I tried not to believe the rumors, ignoring his late nights and the scent of other perfumes. But eventually, it became obvious: he was unfaithful. And it wasn’t just once. Friends, neighbors, even my parents—they all knew. I tried to keep the family together—for Tom’s sake. I endured for too long, hoping he’d come to his senses. Until one night, I awoke, realizing he hadn’t come home, and it struck me: I couldn’t do it anymore.
I gathered my things, took five-year-old Tom by the hand, and moved in with my mum. James didn’t even try to stop us. A month later, he went abroad—supposedly for work. Soon, he found another woman and seemed to erase us from his life. No letters, no calls. Total indifference. I was left alone. Mum passed away, then Dad. Tom and I made our way through everything together—school, clubs, illnesses, joys, graduation. I worked three jobs so he’d never want for anything. I had no time for personal life; he meant everything to me.
When Tom got into university in Manchester, I helped however I could—sending parcels, money, support. But I couldn’t afford to buy a flat—not even close. He never complained. He said he’d manage. I was proud of him.
A month ago, he came to me with news: he’d decided to get married. My joy was short-lived. He was nervous, avoiding eye contact. Then he blurted out:
“Mum… I need your help. It’s about Dad.”
I was stunned. He said he’d recently reconnected with James, who’d returned to England and offered Tom keys to a two-bedroom flat that he inherited from his grandma. But it came with a condition. I must marry him again and let him live in my flat.
I was speechless. I looked at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He continued:
“You’re alone… You don’t have anyone. Why not give it another shot? For me. For my future family. Dad has changed…”
I quietly left for the kitchen. Kettle, tea, trembling hands. Everything blurred before my eyes. For twenty years, I carried it all on my own. For twenty years, he’d never once inquired how we were. And now he returns… with a “proposition.”
I came back to the room and calmly said:
“No. I won’t agree.”
Tom flared up. He started yelling, accusing. He said I always thought of myself. That because of me, he never had a father. That now I was ruining his life again. I stayed silent because each word of his cut through me. He didn’t know how I lay awake with exhaustion. How I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat. How I denied myself everything so he could have meat, not me.
I don’t feel lonely. My life, though hard, has been honest. I have work, books, a garden, friends. I don’t need a person who once betrayed me and now returns, not for love, but for comfort.
Tom left without a goodbye. He hasn’t called since. I know he’s upset. I understand him. He wants the best for himself—just as I once did. But I can’t sell my dignity for square footage. That’s too high a price.
Maybe he’ll understand. Perhaps not soon. But I’ll wait. Because I love him. With true love—without conditions, without flats, and without “if.” I bore him out of love. Raised him with love. And I won’t allow love to become a commodity.
And my ex-husband… let him stay in the past. That’s where he belongs.
