*”My son won’t come because his wife won’t let him,” she said. “She claims we’re always demanding things from him, and that she doesn’t care about our house.”*
“Well, he’s not coming,” sighed Valentina bitterly. “My husband and I don’t even get upset anymore—we’re used to it. It’s always the same. First, promises, then silence.”
“What happened this time?” I asked. “Did his wife refuse again? I remember you two never quite got along…”
“Maybe she did. Though my son never outright said she’s stopping him. But it’s obvious… He used to visit more often. Now? Nothing. She’s found a way to keep him tied. We’ll probably have to hire workers to fix the roof—apparently, he can’t spare a single day,” Valentina said, barely holding back her resentment.
She was talking about her 40-year-old son, Thomas. He left their village twelve years ago, settled in Manchester, and works as a mechanic. Once a hands-on worker, now he oversees others. He married late, bought a house, built his life alone. His wife, Emily, was no young bride either when they met.
“She never had a serious relationship before him,” Valentina continued. “And I see why. She’s got a… difficult temper. We clashed from the start. I tried, truly. But she acted like I was the enemy from day one.”
“I’ve heard her on the phone,” chimed in a neighbor. “Even her greetings sound mocking. I don’t know what he sees in her.”
Emily rarely speaks to Thomas’s parents. Once a year, if she permits, he visits—alone. This spring, he promised to come help repair the roof. Bought the tickets. But his wife, as it turned out, had other plans.
“She’s pregnant,” Valentina said with frustration. “Now, apparently, he can’t leave her alone. Never mind that she’s a grown woman, a nurse—what’s going to happen? For weeks, she’s been wearing him down. At first, he resisted. Then…”
“How does that even work?” Valentina’s husband shook his head. “Does he hold her hand at work? Her parents live nearby—let them help. Why must he give up everything for her?”
“Exactly,” Valentina agreed. “I’m sure her mother’s whispering in her ear—telling her not to let him visit, in case he leaves her. Her younger sister already ended up a single mother, back living with her parents.”
“But Thomas isn’t like that,” I objected. “He’s honourable. Why can’t they visit together?”
“Ha!” Valentina waved me off. “Emily would never come. My husband called her once, and she threw such a fit he told me never to ring them again. Useless.”
“What did she say?”
“That we’re always demanding things. That we’re keeping him from his family. That she’s tired of fighting us. That his leave should be spent with his wife and child, not ‘coddling old folks’ whims.’ And that she doesn’t want our house—we can keep it.”
“The nerve! And Thomas?”
“He says it’s not his fault. That he doesn’t want to stir trouble. That he’s worried about the pregnancy. I get it. But it’s not fair. We raised him, gave him all we could. Now he can’t spare one day?”
Her husband had enough. In anger, he told Thomas to find his own way—we’ll hire workers. Stay with your wife, since she matters more than your parents.
“But he doesn’t understand,” Valentina said quietly. “There could be other wives… Parents are irreplaceable. And they won’t be here forever.”
*Through the bitterness, a truth lingers: love should unite, not divide—for time spares no one, and regret comes too late.*
