I raised my son alone, hoping he’d be my support, but he’s become a burden—along with his wife.
I poured my life into my boy, raised him single-handedly, sacrificing everything to see him grow into someone decent. Yet instead of gratitude, I got indifference, laziness, betrayal. My son, the one I loved above all, and his wife now weigh me down like stones in my pockets. I stand torn: kick them out or keep enduring, watching what’s left of my strength and hope drain away.
My name’s Margaret Hayes, and I live in a small town up in Yorkshire. My son, Oliver, was a blessing as a child—well-mannered, kind, never a trouble. Me, a single mother working two jobs to give him a proper life, dreamed he’d grow up to be my rock, helping me as I’d helped him. But those dreams crumbled like dry biscuits the moment Oliver grew up.
After school, he refused further education. “Uni’s not for me, Mum,” he said, and signed up for the army. I hoped service would harden his sense of duty, that he’d return ready to build something. Instead, he came back worse. Study? “Can’t be bothered.” Work? “Only if it suits me.” His demands were absurd: high pay, no effort. He took a job at a warehouse but quit within a month—”not my thing.” Half a year, he loafed about, doing nothing. I fed him, clothed him, paid for everything on my measly pension, barely scraping by myself.
Then Oliver brought home his wife—Jasmine, an eighteen-year-old girl who’d never held a job and had no intention to. Her arrogance stunned me: acting like the world owed her, though she had neither skills nor ambition. Naturally, they moved in. My cramped flat, already too small, became a battleground. I tried nudging them—tidy up, *do* something—but every word met with scowls. “Mum, we’ll sort it!” Oliver would snap. Jasmine would roll her eyes, smirking. Their defiance felt like spit on all my effort.
One day, I cracked. “Sort it out *elsewhere*!” I spat. “I can’t feed you both on my pension! I’ve got nothing left, and you’re leeching off me!” My voice shook with fury and hurt. I gave them till month’s end to pack and leave. Oliver stared at me, wounded; Jasmine scoffed. Neither argued. But deep down, I’m terrified—what if they stay? How do I handle my own flesh and blood?
I’m split between love for Oliver and sheer injustice. He’s my boy, my blood, the one I sacrificed everything for. But now? He doesn’t spare me a thought. His indifference, his sloth, his choice of a wife just as feckless—it’s a slap in the face. Jasmine makes it worse: she won’t cook, won’t clean, lives off me like I owe it to her. I watch my life bleed away dragging these two behind me, and it *shatters* me.
What do I do? Throw them out, and I lose my son forever. Let them stay, and I lose myself. Every day, I search Oliver’s face for the boy I loved, but all I see is a stranger who’s forgotten what gratitude means. My hope for his support is dead. Now I stand at the edge, wondering if I’ve the strength to jump.
