My son and his wife decided to sell the cottage I gave them, breaking my heart in the process.
When my son Oliver announced his plans to marry, my heart swelled with joy. Three years earlier, I’d been widowed, and loneliness had settled on my shoulders like a weighted blanket. Living in a quiet town in the Cotswolds, I dreamed of bonding with my future daughter-in-law, helping raise grandchildren, and feeling the warmth of family again. But nothing went as I’d hoped, and now their decision to sell the cottage I gifted them feels like the final straw that shattered my heart.
From the start, things with the bride-to-be, Penelope, were… difficult. I tried not to meddle in Oliver and Penelope’s lives, though so much about her behaviour grated on me. Their flat was always drowning in dust—Penelope rarely bothered with a proper clean. I bit my tongue, afraid of causing a fuss, but deep down, I worried for my son. Even worse, Penelope seldom cooked. Oliver lived off takeaways or overpriced meals in cafés. I watched as he single-handedly supported their lifestyle on his salary while Penelope frittered away her modest earnings on manicures and designer sales. Still, I kept quiet to avoid a row.
To support Oliver, I started inviting him over after work. I’d cook proper meals—roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, treacle puddings—hoping he’d feel some comfort from home. Once, before Penelope’s birthday, I offered to help prepare a meal. “No need,” she said sharply. “We’ve booked dinner at a restaurant. I refuse to spend my birthday slaving over a hob like some harassed housewife.” Her words stung. “In my day, I managed just fine,” I shot back. “Eating out is so expensive!” Penelope rolled her eyes. “Our money, our choice. We’re not asking you for a penny.” I swallowed my words, but her arrogance cut deep.
The years passed. Penelope had two children—my darling grandchildren, Sophie and James. But the way they were being raised horrified me. Spoilt rotten, given everything they whimpered for, they stayed up past midnight glued to screens, never learning discipline. I bit my tongue, not wanting to push Oliver and Penelope away. Silence became my shield, but it wore my spirit thin.
Then, just last week, Oliver dropped the bombshell that’s left me reeling. He and Penelope are selling the cottage I gave them last year. Nestled among pines and oaks by the river, that place was the heart of our family. My late husband, Edward, adored it. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch, pruning the apple trees, laughing under the open sky. After he passed, I still visited now and then, though the upkeep had become too much. With a heavy heart, I passed it to Oliver, believing he’d bring his family there—that the children would breathe fresh air, paddle in the stream, make memories.
But Penelope hated it. “No proper loo, hauling water from the well—it’s not a holiday, it’s a chore,” she declared. “We’d rather go to Spain!” Oliver backed her up. “Mum, who wants to rough it? We’re selling it and booking a proper break.” My chest tightened. “What about your father’s memory?” I blurted. “I thought you’d love it as he did!” Oliver just shrugged. “It’s not for us.”
That cottage wasn’t just bricks and land—it was a lifetime of memories. My husband’s laughter, his dreams for the family to love it as he had. Now it’ll be sold off, as casually as clearing out an old cupboard, just to fund a week in the sun. I feel betrayed—not just by my son, but by my own foolish hope. I stayed silent for years to keep the peace, but now I see: my silence let them forget what truly matters. And this ache? I don’t think it’ll ever fade.
