I asked my former daughter-in-law to move in with me—now it’s just my grandson and daughter left. My son might as well not exist anymore.
I raised him alone. His father walked out when Mikey was barely three, claiming he was tired of the daily grind, the responsibility, the whole family business. As if I, a girl three years younger, was supposed to be the expert on adult life. He slammed the door on his way out, leaving me with a toddler, mounting debts, sleepless nights, and two jobs. After that, I stopped expecting help from anyone.
I loved my son fiercely. Mike grew up clever, kind, and warm-hearted. I poured everything into him—care, energy, my health, my youth. When he fell for Sophie at 23 (she was 21), it was all starry eyes and giddy laughter. He took odd jobs, saved up for a ring, and proposed properly. I never doubted he’d make a good husband. Sophie seemed quiet, a bit fragile, but I sensed she’d be a lovely wife, so I welcomed her like my own.
They had a modest wedding, rented a flat, and I let them go with a light heart—their happiness to build. A year later, little Alfie arrived—my grandson, my pride. A proper bruiser at 9½ pounds. I adored him instantly. Mike landed a better job, life was smooth sailing. Then… out of the blue, divorce struck.
No shouting, no drama, barely a word. Just Mike announcing, “I’m leaving.” There was another woman—a colleague, already expecting his child. It was betrayal. I couldn’t justify it. Sophie and Alfie moved back with her parents, while my son shacked up with his new flame. He tried convincing me love just fades sometimes, but I knew better—he’d turned into his father.
He invited me over, wanted me to meet his new partner. I refused. That wasn’t my family. My family was Sophie and Alfie. I kept visiting my ex-daughter-in-law. We grew close as mother and daughter—helping out, babysitting, bringing groceries. I saw how she struggled: a tiny room, grumbling parents, endless exhaustion. One day, I said, “Move in with me.”
I lived alone in a three-bedroom house. Plenty of space. Still working, I craved warmth, chatter, life. Sophie hesitated, but by evening, she was on my doorstep, bags in hand, eyes swollen from crying.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t even know how to…”
Now the three of us live together. Sophie keeps house, I work, and evenings are for Alfie, bad telly, and recipe debates that dissolve into giggles. I feel useful again. No pretending everything’s fine. We’re a proper family.
Mike found out Sophie and Alfie were with me and showed up. I was at work. Sophie answered. He demanded visitation, insisted Gran shouldn’t interfere. When I got home and saw him on the step, I snapped.
“You betrayed your wife. You abandoned your son. You’re your father all over again—and you dare talk about rights?”
He spluttered excuses—another child, money troubles. I cut him off.
“You’re no son of mine. This house isn’t yours. Leave.”
He slammed the door. I locked it for good. Now it’s just Alfie and Sophie—my daughter, not in blood but in heart. I’ve half a mind to update the will. This house goes to my grandson. Sophie’s young; she’ll find love again, and I’ll cheer her on. My son chose his path. Mine walks beside those who stayed true.
