“I weep because my son has cut me out of his life”: my daughter-in-law destroyed my family
Girls, it pains me even to write these words, but I can no longer bear this alone. My son—the only child I carried, raised, and nurtured—now acts as though I do not exist. And all this began after she came into his life: his wife, my daughter-in-law. To this day, I do not understand what I did wrong. Where did I misstep? How could my own flesh and blood turn away from his mother so coldly?
I raised my son alone. There were men in my life, but none were right: some took advantage of my kindness, others simply vanished. Perhaps it was my temperament, or perhaps I yearned too much for love and mistook fleeting affection for the real thing. In the hard years of the Nineties, I toiled at multiple jobs, scrimping on myself so my son would want for nothing. I walked through life without complaint, ignoring exhaustion, sparing no effort, sacrificing sleep.
Then came a man who became our salvation. Married, yes. But he helped. Most importantly, he secured my son a position at an oil company. It wasn’t much, but he supported us—emotionally and financially—when no one else would. Thanks to him, my son became an oil worker, graduated from technical college, then university, completed his apprenticeship, and built a career. I always believed in him, even when he dreamed of his own business instead of a factory wage. I gave him money, even when I had nothing but bread and water for myself.
Then he brought home a girl. Pretty, but rather empty-headed, or so it seemed to me then. She fell pregnant quickly. I rejoiced—a granddaughter was coming! I helped arrange the wedding. A friend of mine lent them money for rings, and that was when I first felt uneasy. She chose a ring costing more than the entire sum, without consulting anyone. I gently suggested the money was meant for both of them, and perhaps a modest matching pair would be wiser. She looked at me with pure hatred. From that moment, I became her greatest enemy.
I stayed silent. I endured. I even bought them a car so my son could work extra shifts. Then everything fell apart. They sold the car, money grew tight. Her parents began to scorn him: “What kind of husband can’t provide for his family?” Soon after, they divorced. My son turned to drink. Lost his licence. I pulled him back from the brink. I helped. A business emerged. The moment money returned, so did she. And he let her come back. And he began to avoid me.
The business is in my name—because of debts with the bailiffs. He pays, but only a little. He took to gambling, hoping to win back all he’d lost: his wife, his family, his stability. I gave him money again—for staff, for rent, for expansion. He swore it would all be alright. I believed him. Then he demanded more—that I quit my job to be of use to him. I left my work, gave myself entirely, but now I sit and wait, hoping they’ll remember me. Often, they don’t. I can’t even buy my granddaughter presents—there’s nothing left. They only invite me when they need something.
He gave me a car—sleek, modern. Yet I can’t afford to fuel or insure it; he gives me no money. Sometimes he takes it, returns it broken. Once, when I needed to go somewhere urgently, it wouldn’t start. And I’m still paying off the loan for his last car—put in my name. At first, he paid, then he stopped. And what do I do? Say nothing. Because I’m his mother.
I gave them a share in my flat. They don’t invite me for holidays—not Christmas, not birthdays. Once, I visited him at work—he shouted at me. Said I shamed him. For what? I don’t drink. I’ve written for literary journals, joined the Writers’ Guild, read books, worked all my life. I’m not some ragged old woman from the streets.
Sometimes I just apologise—for everything. I don’t even know what for. Just, “I’m sorry if I’ve done wrong.” Now—I’m blocked. No calls. No messages. I’m left in silence, and it feels like madness, this emptiness. I sit by the window, watch strangers’ children pass by, and wonder: what was my crime? Why did my son—my everything—decide I was no longer needed?
I weep from a pain I cannot speak, cannot endure. I weep because the one who should have been my pillar is now the farthest soul from me. All I have left are memories and hope. Hope that one day he’ll remember how I held his hand when he was afraid. How I stood by him when the world was against him. And he’ll understand: a mother does not betray. A mother—simply loves.
