My son called, complaining about life, and I immediately knew what he wanted, but my decision is firm.
I am the mother of three children: two sons and a daughter. They are all grown up now, and I look forward to having grandchildren, although I understand they first need to start families of their own. But times have changed—it’s now trendy to live in “partnerships,” delay marriage, and stretch out family-building over years. I always thought my main goal was to set my children on their feet, give them the wings to become independent, and then I could finally relax and live for myself. But no! That peace has never come. I am still torn with worry about them. Why does everything fall on me? Because I married an immature man who couldn’t take care of himself or the kids, leaving me to carry the burden alone.
Let me explain. My eldest son, Alex, views family life skeptically and isn’t thinking of marriage yet. My youngest, Mary, sifted through suitors, turning their heads, but did so wisely. Now she’s found her person, and they’ve been living together for two years in a small town outside Nottingham, just waiting to tie the knot officially. I’m almost at ease with Mary—she knows what she wants.
But my middle son, Daniel, is giving me gray hairs and sleepless nights! Back in college, he moved in with a girl. “Mum, I’m getting married!” he happily announced. But his “love of his life,” Natalie, turned out to be sly, taking money from him—and me—and then left him for someone else. It hit me like a bolt from the blue. They rented a flat together but were always short on money. “Mum, we can’t pay the rent!” he called every month, voice trembling with despair. I’d ask, “Why can’t you both pay?” And he’d say, “Natalie’s saving up for a gift for her mum.” So I helped, sending him funds so he wouldn’t drop out of college, wouldn’t collapse under the weight.
When Natalie left, I hoped it would be a lesson for him. Under my strict guidance, Dan finished university, earned his degree, and I thought he’d grown wiser. Apparently not! Fools learn from others’ mistakes, the wise only from their own—and even then, only by the third time. Enter Sophie. “Mum, she’s amazing, the best in the world!” he’d declare, eyes shining. At first, she seemed sensible and capable. I was relieved—perhaps she wouldn’t let him down. They moved to another city, rented a flat, and it started all over again: there wasn’t enough money.
Dan had by then gotten a decent salary—some families get by on that for a whole month! But for two adults, it was “not enough.” Sophie could go without working for six months to a year: if it wasn’t that she couldn’t find a job, it was her health, or she didn’t get on with her colleagues. They’ve been in this “partnership” for five years now. And throughout these years, I sent him money regularly. Small amounts, but still! I realized I should have stopped ages ago, but every time he called with a pitiful, “Mum, I can’t even afford bread!” my heart broke. He’s my son, my flesh and blood! How could I say no?
I tried to make him see reason, shouted down the phone, “Dan, this isn’t normal! How can you be squandering your budget? Where’s all the money going? With today’s prices, you should have more than enough!” And he’d reply, “I know you never liked Sophie!” My son doesn’t hear me, as if I’m talking to a wall. What do I do? I’m at a loss, and anxiety gnaws at me.
Yesterday he called again. His voice was tired, almost broken: he’d quit his job, hadn’t found a new one, didn’t know how to move forward. His girlfriend—or is she his wife now?—is currently working, earning. But here’s the catch: Dan’s money is “shared” money, while Sophie’s money is only hers, and she spends it entirely on herself. Seriously, what kind of life is this? I listened to his whining, already knowing what he was getting at. He’d again ask for “just a little” money to get through the month.
But I told myself: enough! Firmly, like a verdict. Let them sort it out themselves. Let Sophie support him, or let him finally open his eyes and see who he’s with. My patience has worn thin. I can no longer be their perpetual lifesaver. My heart aches, tears well up, but I gritted my teeth and decided: not a penny. Now, I seek advice: how do I stand firm? How do I not break when he calls again with complaints? How do I keep my word when maternal love screams, “Help him”? I want my son to grow into a man, not stay a boy clinging to my apron strings. Help me find strength!
