My son won’t speak to me anymore… and I don’t know when he became a stranger to me.
I have only one son. My flesh and blood. My anchor. My pride. He’s thirty now, and I’m sixty-one. I dedicated my whole life to him—worked myself ragged, lost sleep, prayed for him. He’s from my first marriage. Now he has his own family, a wife, and recently, a long-awaited daughter—my granddaughter. You’d think I should be happy, living just across the garden from them. But no… we hardly talk anymore.
Before my granddaughter was born, it was different. My son and I were close. He’d drop by often, asking for advice. Sometimes he just came for a cuppa and a proper chat. I felt needed. Now there’s a wall between us. He’s distant, as if I’ve somehow betrayed him. I sense resentment, but I can’t understand why.
I’ve tried gently asking him—he stays silent. When I asked his wife, she just said, “Sort it out between yourselves.” But how can we, when he avoids me entirely?
When he was a boy, he was often poorly. I carried everything alone back then. My second husband was a kind man, but weak. My son never saw him as a father, and my husband never pushed it. All the worries, the discipline—it all fell on me. I was mother and father. We went through so much—bad crowds, suspicions of drugs, teenage rebellion. I had to be firm—not out of anger, but fear. I was terrified of losing him. I wasn’t perfect, but I was the one who never gave up.
But here’s the strange part—things soured over something trivial. I asked him to help with my computer. I’ve never grasped those updates and programs. Before, he’d help without complaint. This time, he sighed, stood up, called his wife, and just… walked out. Didn’t even take the scones I’d baked. Since then—silence.
At first, I thought he’d cool off and come round. But months passed—nothing. He doesn’t even tell me when he travels abroad; I hear it through the grapevine. I only see my granddaughter when his wife brings her over. She’s polite but distant—no small talk. When I ask about my son, she just says, “Not my place. You two need to talk.”
I’ve stopped calling—don’t want to seem pushy. Thought stepping back might make him miss me. But no… The more I stay quiet, the further he drifts.
The hardest part isn’t anger or resentment. It’s the silence. The indifference. It’s like I’ve ceased to exist. He doesn’t visit, doesn’t call, doesn’t ask how I am—didn’t even check when I was in hospital. His wife only knew because she happened to ring.
I don’t understand. I never argued, never meddled, never imposed. Helped when asked—gave money, stood by them. Don’t I deserve at least a conversation?
I lie awake, replaying every word, every meeting, searching for where I went wrong. Did I overlook something? Did I hurt him without realising? Or am I just… no longer needed?
They say children grow distant—but not like this. Not in silence like the grave. I’m not a stranger. I’m his mother.
Now, it’s like walking on broken glass—every memory cuts. I look at old photos, his childhood drawings, and can’t believe that cheerful little boy now acts like I’m an enemy.
I don’t ask for much. No gifts, no money, no grand gestures. Just his presence. His voice. His “Hello, Mum.”
Tell me—what do I do? How do I reach him when he’s made up his mind to pull away? What do I say when he won’t listen? Or do I just accept it? But how do I live, when my heart’s breaking, and my own child acts like I’m already gone?
