My son doesn’t want to talk to me anymore… and I don’t know when he became a stranger.
He’s my only child. My flesh and blood. My pride and joy. He’s thirty now, and I’m sixty-one. I’ve devoted my whole life to him—worked myself to the bone, 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’d be happy, living just across the street from them. But no… we hardly speak anymore.
Before my granddaughter was born, things were different. My son and I were close—he’d drop by often, ask for my advice, sometimes just to share a cup of tea and talk properly. I felt needed. Now there’s a wall between us. He’s distant, as if I’ve betrayed him somehow. I can tell he’s upset, but I don’t know why.
I’ve tried gently asking him—he stays silent. I asked his wife, but she only says, “Sort it out between yourselves.” How can I do that when he avoids even a simple chat?
When he was little, he was often ill. I carried everything alone. My second husband was kind but weak-willed. My son never saw him as a father, and he never pushed it. All the worries, all the discipline, all the hard choices—they fell on me. I was both mother and father. We went through a lot—bad crowds, worries about drugs, teenage rebellion. I had to be tough—not out of anger, but fear. I couldn’t lose him. I wasn’t perfect, but I was the one person who never gave up.
The strangest part? Things turned sour over something small. I asked him to help with my computer—I don’t understand all these updates and programs. Before, he’d help without a word. This time, he sighed, stood up, called his wife, and just left. Didn’t even take the scones I’d baked for him. And since then—silence.
At first, I thought he’d cool off and come back. But months passed—nothing. He doesn’t even tell me when he travels abroad; I find out from friends. I only see my granddaughter when his wife brings her. She’s polite but distant—never says more than needed. When I ask about him, she just repeats, “That’s between you two.”
I’ve stopped calling—don’t want to seem pushy. Thought if I gave him space, he might miss me. But no… the longer I stay quiet, the farther he drifts.
The worst part isn’t anger or blame—it’s the silence. The indifference. As if I’ve ceased to exist for him. No visits, no calls, no questions about my health. He didn’t even ask when I was in hospital—his wife only found out by chance.
I don’t understand. I never argued, never interfered, never forced myself on them. Helped when asked, gave money, offered support. Don’t I deserve at least a simple conversation?
I lie awake at night, replaying every word, every meeting, searching for where I went wrong. Did I underestimate something? Did I hurt him without realising? Or am I just not needed anymore?
They say children grow up and drift apart. But not like this—not in complete silence. I’m not a stranger. I’m his mother.
Now every memory cuts like glass. I look at old photos, his childhood drawings, and can’t believe the boy who once laughed with me now shuts me out like an enemy.
I don’t ask for much. No gifts, no money, no grand gestures. Just his presence. His voice. His “Hello, Mum.”
What do I do? How do I reach him when he’s chosen to pull away? What do I say when he won’t listen? Or maybe—do I let it be? But how do I live when my heart breaks daily, and my own child acts as though I’m already gone?
