Helen Margaret raised her son, Oliver, alone. Perhaps I’m to blame for his dependence on his wife now, but the realisation tears my heart apart. My childhood friend, Elizabeth, once told me bluntly, “You coddled him too much.” Her words hurt, but they made me think. Now I live in a quiet village near York, barely seeing my son or granddaughter, because his wife, Victoria, has taken complete control, and I’ve become a stranger in their lives.
Oliver was born long after I’d forgotten about his father, with whom I’d lived for four years. My own father, a successful businessman, gave me a flat after school so I’d feel independent. In my youth, it was the heart of every gathering, but everything changed when I met Oliver’s father. Love felt eternal, but the pregnancy was unexpected. I never doubted keeping the child—I’d already imagined holding my baby in my arms. His father tried to win me back, but I pulled away. We separated before the birth. My parents urged me to stay for our son’s sake, but I insisted, “I’ll be both mother and father to him.” My father sighed, “Your life, your choice.”
When Oliver was seven, my father passed away. Until then, we wanted for nothing—toys, clothes, holidays—my son had it all. He never threw tantrums, and friends would ask, “How did you raise such a well-mannered boy with so much privilege?” I’d proudly say, “I just love him. He’s my only man.” Little did I know that my “only man” would grow up and choose another woman, pushing me aside. I was consumed by his education, his future. To keep him out of the army, I arranged for him to serve in a clerical unit, and every day I brought him meals, just to see him smile.
After his service, Oliver went to university, where in his third year, he met Victoria. The moment I saw her, my stomach clenched. She was beautiful, but her gaze—cold, commanding—sent a chill through me. I knew then: this girl would dominate him. And she did. He became her shadow, bending to her whims, spending every last pound on gifts, inventing surprises just to please her. Victoria didn’t even need to manipulate him—she simply let him adore her, and he dissolved into her. Our conversations turned into his breathless praises of her. I felt him slipping away but swallowed my sorrow, forcing politeness for his sake.
Before the wedding, Victoria made her demands: the celebration had to be extravagant. I spent nearly my entire savings to satisfy her. But it wasn’t enough—I signed my flat over to Oliver and moved in with my mother. That was my mistake. When Victoria learned the flat was in his name alone, she erupted. The next day, Oliver won’t stop in fear.
Now he visits me like a thief in the night. We talk for half an hour about nothing, his eyes avoiding mine, before he rushes off, terrified of angering Victoria. I barely see my granddaughter, Lily, except at school plays or dance recitals, under Victoria’s watchful glare, never allowed a proper hug. Lily’s eyes are starting to mirror her mother’s icy stare, and it frightens me. My heart aches—I’m losing not just my son, but my granddaughter too.
I wish I could change this, but Victoria’s wall is unbreakable. Oliver, my little boy, is her puppet now, and I’m an inconvenience. Elizabeth was right—I shielded him too much, and now he can’t stand up for me. But how do I fix this without tearing his family apart? Every secret visit is another reminder of what I’ve lost. I live with this pain, dreaming of holding Lily, of speaking openly with Oliver, but Victoria stands between us like an immovable force. And I fear this divide may never close.
The lesson? Love shouldn’t smother—it should teach strength. A child raised without boundaries may never learn to say no, even when they should.
