My son suggested I move to the cottage. I refused—but helped with money instead.
I am the mother of two grown sons. The eldest married long ago, lives in another city, and visits twice a year. But my youngest, James, has always been my comfort and concern. All my life, I’ve done my best for him—pulled him through university, supported him financially while he found his footing, and rejoiced when, at last, things began falling into place. At twenty-seven, James landed a good position at an IT firm, earning a respectable wage. We lived peacefully together in a small house—just the two of us.
Then he brought home Emily, his girlfriend. I didn’t object—she seemed kind and pleasant enough. But when, a few months later, he announced they intended to marry, unease settled over me. Not because I disliked her—but because James, to my mind, hadn’t yet fully grown. He’d never learned to struggle for comfort, to endure hardship. He’d always wanted things quick and easy.
They married. At first, they rented a flat, and I kept my distance—only dropping by with meals or helping when asked. Then, six months later, James came to me with a solemn look.
“Mum, Emily and I have been thinking… We need to save faster for a deposit to secure a mortgage. Half our wages go to rent. Perhaps you could stay at the cottage for a while, and we’ll live here? It’s warm, convenient—everything’s in place. We won’t stay long—just until we’ve saved enough.”
I went still. The cottage—a damp, unheated little place miles outside town, a two-hour journey by coach. I worked at the village school—rising at five each morning just to catch the bus. And in winter? Unbearable. But more than that—I knew, if I agreed, nothing would go as planned.
I know my son. Comfort sinks into his bones. Once settled in this cosy house with Emily, the urgency of saving would dissolve. Even if they swore it was temporary, time would stretch indefinitely. Comfort is a trap. And if he stopped striving, stopped pushing forward—who would bear the weight of that?
I don’t wish to live at the cottage. And I won’t indulge another’s laziness—not even my own son. I’ve spent my life moving forward, fighting for my comforts—no one handed them to me. Why should I sacrifice my health, my time, my strength now for another’s ease?
The next day, I spoke to James firmly but gently.
“No. I won’t move. But I will help—I’ll pay part of your rent so you can keep saving. Still, I won’t leave my home.”
He took offence. Deeply. Now, neither he nor Emily call or visit. We hardly speak, and the silence stings—because I never wanted strife. Yet I know I did right. I didn’t make his life harder—I kept him from running from it. And that matters more than temporary peace.
One day, he’ll understand. I didn’t refuse—I protected him. Myself. What binds us. A parent’s love isn’t measured in concessions alone. Sometimes, it’s the quiet, unyielding “no” when the child would take the easiest road.
