June 12th, 2024
I’ve asked my former daughter-in-law to move in with me—now it’s just my grandson and my daughter left in my life. My son might as well not exist anymore.
I raised him alone. His father walked out when Michael was barely three, claiming he was tired of the routine, the responsibility, the family. As if I, three years younger, was supposed to know better what adulthood meant. He slammed the door behind him, leaving me with a child, debts, sleepless nights, and two jobs. After that, I stopped expecting help from anyone.
I loved my son fiercely. Michael grew up clever, kind, and thoughtful. I poured everything into him—care, energy, my health, my youth. When he fell for Sophie at 23, she was just 21. First love, shining eyes, laughter ringing through the house. He took odd jobs, saved for a ring, and proposed himself. I never doubted he was ready to be a husband. Sophie seemed fragile, quiet, but I sensed she’d be a good wife, and I welcomed her as my own.
They had a modest wedding, rented a flat, and I let them go with a light heart—let them build their happiness. A year later, little Oliver arrived—my grandson, my pride. A strong boy, 9lbs 8oz. I adored him instantly. Michael found a better-paying job, and for a while, everything ran smoothly. Then… then came the bolt from the blue—the divorce.
No shouting, no scenes, no explanation. Just Michael saying, “I’m leaving.” There was someone else. A colleague from work, already carrying his child. It was betrayal. I couldn’t justify it. Sophie returned to her parents with Oliver, and my son moved in with the other woman. He tried to tell me these things happen, that love fades. But I saw it—he’d followed his father’s footsteps.
He invited me to meet his new partner. I refused. No. That wasn’t my family. My family was Sophie and Oliver. I kept visiting my former daughter-in-law. We grew close, like mother and daughter. I helped with groceries, took Oliver to the park, listened when she needed to talk. I saw how hard it was—cramped in her parents’ house, their constant complaints, her exhaustion. One day, I said, “Move in with me.”
I live alone in a three-bedroom house. There’s space for everyone. I still work, but the quiet was getting to me. Sophie hesitated, but by evening, she was on my doorstep. Suitcases 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 the house, I work, and in the evenings, we play with Oliver, watch films, swap recipes, laugh. I feel needed again. No pretending everything’s fine. We’re a proper family.
Michael found out Sophie and Oliver were living with me and came over. I was at work. Sophie answered. He started saying he wanted to see his son, that I shouldn’t interfere. When I got home and saw him on the doorstep, something in me snapped.
“You betrayed your wife. You abandoned your child. You’re just like your father—and you dare talk about rights?” He muttered excuses—another child, money troubles. I didn’t listen. “You’re no son of mine. This house isn’t yours. Leave.”
He slammed the door. I locked it behind him for good. Now, it’s just Oliver and Sophie—my daughter, not by blood, but in my heart. I’ve thought about my will. This house should go to my grandson. Sophie’s still young; she’ll find love again, and I’ll support her however I can. My son chose his path. Mine walks beside those who didn’t betray me.
