I asked my former daughter-in-law to move in—now it’s just me, my grandson, and my daughter. My son no longer exists to me.
I raised my son alone. His father walked out when Mikey had just turned three years old—he said he was tired of responsibility, of routine, of family. As if I, a girl three years younger, should have known better than him what adult life meant. He left, slamming the door behind him, and I was left with a child, debts, sleepless nights, and two jobs. From then on, I never expected help from anyone again.
I loved my son wholeheartedly. Mike grew up kind, clever, and warm. I poured everything into him—my care, my strength, my youth, my health. When he fell in love with Sophie, he was just twenty-three, and she was twenty-one. First love, sparkling eyes, laughter ringing through the house. He worked extra shifts, saved for a ring, and proposed all on his own. I had no doubt—he was ready to be a husband. Sophie seemed gentle, quiet, but I could tell she’d be a good wife, so I embraced her like my own.
They had modest wedding, rented a flat, and I let them go with a light heart—let them build their happiness. A year later, little Freddie was born—my grandson, my pride. A sturdy lad, 9½ pounds. I adored him instantly. Mike found a better job, everything was smooth sailing. And then… then came the thunderbolt—divorce.
No shouting, no drama, no explanations. Just Mike saying, “I’m leaving.” There was another woman. A colleague from work, already expecting his child. It was betrayal. I couldn’t find words to excuse him. Sophie and Freddie went back to her parents, and my son moved in with his new woman. He tried convincing me that love fades, that these things happen. But I saw it—he’d walked the same path as his father.
He invited me over, wanted me to meet his new girlfriend. I refused. No. That’s not my family. My family is Sophie and Freddie. I kept visiting my former daughter-in-law. We grew close, like mother and daughter. I went to them, helped out, took Freddie for walks, brought groceries. I saw how hard it was for Sophie—a tiny room, grumbling parents, exhaustion weighing her down. One day, I said, “Come live with me.”
I lived alone in a three-bedroom house. There’s space for all of us. I was still working, missing warmth, missing laughter in the house. Sophie hesitated at first, but by evening, she was on my doorstep. With bags. Eyes swollen from crying.
“Thank you,” she whispered, “I don’t even know how to repay you…”
Now we live together, the three of us. Sophie keeps the house, I work, and in the evenings we play with Freddie, watch films, swap recipes, and just laugh. I feel needed again. No pretending everything’s fine. We’re a real family.
Mike found out Sophie and Freddie were living with me and turned up. I was at work. Sophie answered. He started saying he had a right to see his son, that a grandmother shouldn’t interfere. When I got home and saw him at the door, I snapped. I couldn’t hold back.
“You betrayed your wife. You abandoned your child. You’re just like your father—and you dare talk about rights?”
He tried justifying himself, said he had another child now, that money was tight. I didn’t listen.
“You’re no son of mine. This house isn’t yours. Leave.”
He stormed out, slamming the door. I locked it behind him for good. Now it’s just Freddie and Sophie—my daughter, not by blood but by heart. I’ve thought about making a will. My house should go to my grandson. Sophie’s still young; she should find love again, and I’ll help her however I can. My son chose his path. Mine is here—with those who didn’t betray me.
