“Girls, my heart aches even as I write these words, but I can’t keep this inside any longer. My son—my only child, the one I carried, raised, and loved—now acts like I don’t even exist. And it all started after *she* came into his life: his wife, my daughter-in-law. I still don’t understand what I did wrong. Where did I slip up? How can my own flesh and blood turn away from his mother so coldly?
I raised him on my own. There were men in my life, but none of them stayed—some took advantage of my kindness, others just disappeared. Maybe it’s my personality, or maybe I just wanted love so badly that I mistook anything for it. In the 90s, I had to work two jobs, skimping on everything just to make sure my boy had what he needed. I pushed through exhaustion, never complaining, never sleeping enough.
Then someone came along who felt like a lifeline. Married, yes. But he helped—got my son a job in the oil fields. He wasn’t always around, but when no one else was there, he supported us emotionally and financially. Because of him, my boy got his start, went to trade school, then uni, landed an apprenticeship, and finally a stable job. I believed in him, even when he talked about starting his own business instead of sticking to a factory wage. I gave him money, even if it meant I went without.
Then he brought *her* home. Pretty, but—forgive me—not the brightest. She got pregnant fast. I was happy—I’d have a granddaughter! I helped plan their wedding. A friend of mine gave them money for rings, but that’s when I first felt uneasy. She picked one that cost more than the whole budget, didn’t ask anyone’s opinion. I gently suggested they could get matching, simpler ones. The way she looked at me—pure hate. From then on, I was enemy number one.
I kept quiet. Put up with it. Even bought them a car so my son could earn extra after shifts. Then everything fell apart. They sold the car, money got tight. Her parents started in with the jabs—‘What kind of husband can’t provide?’—and soon, divorce. My son spiraled into drinking, lost his license. I pulled him out of that hole. Helped him. Then the business came. And the second money flowed again—*she* came back. And he let her. But me? He started avoiding me.
The business is in my name—because of debts. He pays it off slowly. Then he got into gambling, chasing some fantasy of winning it all back—her, the family, stability. I gave him more money—for staff, rent, keeping things afloat. He promised it’d work. I believed him. Then came the demands—quit my job, be *useful* to him. I did. Now I just sit, waiting to be remembered. Usually, I’m not. I can’t even buy gifts for my granddaughter—no spare cash. They only call when they need something.
He ‘gifted’ me a car—fancy, new. Except I can’t afford petrol or insurance; he won’t give me the money. Sometimes he takes it, returns it broken. Once, when I *needed* to go somewhere—it wouldn’t start. And I’m still paying off the loan for his *last* car—the one under my name. At first, he paid. Then stopped. And me? I say nothing. Because I’m his mum.
I gave them a share of my flat. Holidays? I’m not invited. Not Christmas, not birthdays. Once, I visited him at work—he shouted at me, said I embarrassed him. *Why?* I don’t drink, I’ve written for literary magazines, I’m in the Writers’ Guild—I’m not some troublemaker off the street.
Sometimes I just apologise—for everything. Not even sure what. Just: ‘Sorry if I’ve done something wrong.’ Now? I’m blocked. Can’t call. Can’t message. The silence is driving me mad. I sit by the window, watch strangers’ children pass, and think: *What did I do?* Why does my son—my everything—act like I’m nothing now?
I cry from the pain I can’t voice or escape. Cry because the one who should be my rock is now the furthest thing from me. All I have left are memories and this stupid, stubborn hope. Hope that one day, he’ll remember how I held his hand when he was scared. How I stood by him when the world turned away. And maybe then, he’ll understand—a mother doesn’t betray. A mother just… loves.”
