My ex-husband promised our son a flat, but with a condition—I must marry him again.
I’m sixty and live in Bath. Never would I have thought that after everything I’ve been through, and after twenty years of complete silence, the past would come barging into my life so brazenly and rudely. And the most painful part is that the initiator of this return was none other than my own son.
Once upon a time, at twenty-five, I was madly in love. Ben—tall, charming, cheerful—seemed like the man of my dreams. We married quickly, and a year later, our son Tom was born. The first few years felt like a fairy tale. We lived in a small flat, dreamt together, made plans. I worked as a teacher and he was an engineer. It seemed like nothing could break our happiness.
But over time, Ben began to change. He stayed late more often, lied, grew distant. I tried not to believe the gossip, turned a blind eye to his late returns, to the scent of unfamiliar perfume. But eventually, it became obvious: he was cheating. Not just once. Friends, neighbours, even our parents knew. I tried to keep the family together for the sake of our son. I endured too long, hoping he’d come to his senses. But one night, I woke up and realized he hadn’t come home, and that was it: I couldn’t take it anymore.
I packed up, took five-year-old Tom by the hand, and went to my mum’s. Ben didn’t even try to stop us. A month later, he moved abroad—supposedly for work. Soon, he found another woman and seemed to erase us from his life. No letters, no calls. Complete indifference. I was left on my own. Mum passed away, then Dad. Tom and I went through everything together—school, clubs, illnesses, joys, graduation. I worked multiple shifts so he’d never want for anything. I didn’t pursue my own personal life; it wasn’t important. He was everything to me.
When Tom got into university in Oxford, I helped as best as I could—sending packages, money, support. But I couldn’t buy him a flat; funds were short. He never complained and said he’d manage alone. I was so proud of him.
A month ago, he came to me with news: he planned to marry. My happiness was short-lived. He was nervous, avoiding my gaze, and then he blurted out:
“Mum… I need your help. It’s… about Dad.”
I was stunned. He explained that he had recently gotten back in touch with Ben. His father had returned to England and offered Tom the keys to a two-bedroom flat he inherited from his grandmother. But—on one condition. I’d have to marry Ben again and let him move into my flat.
I felt my breath catch. I looked at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He went on:
“You’re alone… You have no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future family. Dad’s changed…”
I silently got up and went to the kitchen. Kettle, tea, trembling hands. Everything blurred in front of my eyes. Twenty years I’d managed everything on my own. Twenty years he never once asked how we were. And now he returns… with his “proposal.”
I returned to the room and calmly said:
“No. I won’t agree to this.”
Tom flared up. He shouted, accusing me. Said I always thought only of myself, that because of me, he didn’t have a father, and now I was ruining his life again. I stayed silent. Every word cut me to the core. He didn’t know how often I lay awake from exhaustion, how I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, how I denied myself everything so he could have meat to eat rather than me.
I don’t feel lonely. My life, though hard, has been honest. I have work, books, a garden, friends. I don’t need someone who once betrayed me and now returns not for love, but for convenience.
Tom left without saying goodbye. He hasn’t called since. I know he’s hurt. I understand. He wants the best for himself—just as I once did. But I can’t sell my dignity for a few square metres. It’s too high a price.
Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe not anytime soon. But I’ll wait. Because I love him, truly—without conditions, without flats or “if.” I gave birth to him with love, and raised him with love. I won’t allow love to become something transactional now.
As for my ex-husband… he can stay in the past. That’s where he belongs.
