My heart aches with sorrow and shame for my own son. Five years ago, my son, William, shattered his family, betraying his wife, who was caring for their newborn twins. While Emily, my former daughter-in-law, stayed awake through countless nights rocking their babies, he secretly built a new life with another woman. I, Margaret, live in Manchester and still cannot come to terms with his actions. His new love, Beatrice, is to me a symbol of broken happiness, and I refuse to accept her. My son has become a stranger, and I do not know if I shall ever forgive him.
Five years ago, William divorced Emily. Their twins were barely a few months old. I learned he had been unfaithful while she, exhausted from sleepless nights, gave everything to their children. His mistress, a young and determined woman named Beatrice, gave him an ultimatum—either a divorce or she would leave. And William chose her. Emily was left alone with two infants in her arms, and I could not bear to witness her suffering. My soul was torn apart knowing my son was capable of such cruelty—abandoning his wife and children for a fleeting passion. How can one build happiness upon another’s sorrow?
I made it clear to William at once that I would never accept Beatrice. He was mistaken if he thought I would condone his betrayal. But my son did not listen. Within a year, he proposed to Beatrice, and soon after, they married. I did not attend the wedding—shame overwhelmed me. As a mother, I could not bear to watch him destroy all that was dear to our family. Now, William and Beatrice live in a rented flat in the city centre, raising their own child. Though he is my grandchild, my throat tightens every time I think of him. My true grandchildren—the twins—live with Emily, and I love them with all my heart. For them, I would do anything.
William and I hardly speak. I invited him for Christmas, hoping he might come alone, but he refused, insisting he would not attend without Beatrice. And I do not wish to see her—not now, not ever. Meanwhile, Emily gladly accepted my invitation. We share a warm bond, and she has become like a daughter to me. At Christmas, we gathered in our cosy home—the children sang carols, and Emily helped me prepare the feast. Watching her, I saw how deeply she had suffered. She has devoted herself entirely to the children, forgetting her own desires. Her life is an endless cycle of care, and it pains me to see her like this.
Emily does not look at other men, unable to let go of the past. I have tried speaking to her about it, but she still feels the sting of betrayal. This is our life now: we lean on one another, I help her with the children, and she calls me her second mother. It warms my heart, yet the sorrow remains. My son did not even call to wish me happy Christmas. I ask myself—will he ever understand the damage he has done? Shall I ever forgive him for tearing our family apart and leaving his children without a father? Life will never be the same, but I am grateful for Emily and the twins—they give me the strength to carry on, despite the bitterness and grief.
