I raised my son alone, hoping for his support, but he became a burden alongside his wife.
I devoted my life to my son, raising him single-handedly, sacrificing everything so he’d grow into a decent man. Instead of gratitude and care, I was met with indifference, laziness, and betrayal. My son, whom I loved so dearly, and his wife became a heavy weight on my shoulders, and now I face a painful choice: to throw them out or keep enduring, losing what little strength and hope I have left.
My name is Margaret Thompson, and I live in a small town in the Lake District. My son, Oliver, was a true blessing as a child—well-mannered, kind, obedient—never a trouble. As a single mother, I worked two jobs to give him a good life. I dreamed he’d grow up to be my support, just as I had been for him. But those dreams collapsed like a house of cards when Oliver grew older.
After school, he refused further education. “Uni’s not for me, Mum,” he said and joined the military instead. I hoped service would make him responsible, that he’d return eager to build a future. But when he came back, he only disappointed me. Study? “Don’t fancy it.” Work? “Only if it suits me.” His demands were absurd—a high salary, easy work, no effort. He took a job in a warehouse but quit after a month, saying it “wasn’t him.” For half a year, he sat around doing nothing. I fed him, bought his clothes, paid everything from my modest pension, though I could barely get by myself.
Then Oliver brought home a wife—Chloe, an eighteen-year-old girl without a job or any intention of getting one. Her arrogance was staggering—she acted as if the world owed her everything, though she had no education or ambition. Of course, they moved in with me. My tiny flat, already cramped, became a battleground. I tried to talk to them, pointing out the mess, their idleness, but every hint was met with anger. “Mum, we’ll sort ourselves!” Oliver snapped. Chloe rolled her eyes, chiming in. Their words mocked my efforts.
One day, I’d had enough. “Sort yourselves, but not under my roof!” I blurted. “I can’t feed you both on my pension! I barely scrape by, and you’re just leeching off me!” My voice shook with pain and fury. I gave an ultimatum: by month’s end, they had to pack and leave. Oliver glared, offended; Chloe scoffed. Neither argued. But deep down, I’m afraid—what if they don’t go? What do I do with my own son?
I’m torn between love for Oliver and my sense of fairness. He’s my flesh and blood, the boy I denied myself for. But now he doesn’t think of me. His indifference, his laziness, his choice of an equally reckless wife—it’s like a slap in the face. Chloe just makes it worse—she doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, lives off me as though it’s my duty. I watch my life drain away as I carry them both, and it breaks my heart.
What do I do? Throw them out, and I lose my son forever. Let them stay, and I lose myself. Every day, I look at Oliver, searching for the boy I loved, but I only see a stranger who’s forgotten gratitude. My hope for his support is gone, and now I stand at the edge, unsure if I have the strength to take the step. Sometimes, love means letting go—before there’s nothing left of you to give.
