I showed up at my son’s door with homemade food at seven in the morning, and he slammed it in my face. I’m certain it’s all his wife’s doing.
Mine and my husband’s life has always revolved around one person—our son. We had him late, and from the very first day, we swore he’d never feel the way I did as a child. I grew up without a father, and my mother was distant, cold, almost a stranger. I never knew a mother’s warmth, so I vowed my child would never feel the pain I endured.
William became our purpose. We worked without holidays, without weekends, without a moment for ourselves. Everything for him. When he was in school, we took out a mortgage to buy him a flat in the next building. It was grueling—ten years of repayments—but we managed. By the time he married, he already had his own home.
I’ll never forget the moment I handed him the keys at the wedding reception. His bride, Emily, and her mother nearly burst into tears. Her mother kept saying, “I’d do anything for my girl,” but in the end, there was no dowry, no help—just us.
We kept supporting them however we could. Who else would help a young family? I cooked for them, cleaned, brought groceries, even helped pay for household bits. Emily would call asking where certain kitchen things were—she hadn’t bought them, hadn’t put them away. I did it all gladly, expecting nothing in return. Just a simple “thank you.”
But gratitude, it turned out, was left behind in another life. Instead, there was resentment, disapproval, coldness. And yesterday, I understood—I’m no longer welcome there.
The day began as usual. I had to be at work by eight, so by seven, I was already at my son’s door, bringing them a pot of fresh stew, still warm. And new curtains to match the dinnerware and tablecloths I’d bought them the week before—a little surprise. I opened my bag, took out my key… but it didn’t fit. They’d changed the lock. Without a word.
I stood there, stunned. I knocked. William opened the door. I smiled, holding out the food, explaining how the curtains would match… but he wasn’t listening. Arms crossed, face like stone.
“Mum,” he said flatly, “are you serious? It’s seven in the bloody morning. You just barge in at the crack of dawn, and I’m supposed to thank you? This isn’t normal. If it happens again, we’ll move. And we won’t tell you where.”
He shut the door in my face. Left me standing there, reeling. I had to wake a neighbour to ask her to pass the food along.
On the way to work, my throat knotted. I trembled. How could he? I gave up my youth for him. I never lived for myself. I helped however I could. I stayed involved because I thought that was love—that they still needed me. But no. I’m just in the way. Unwanted.
People say parents don’t owe their children anything. But my husband and I never saw it that way. We gave everything. And more. And now? “Mum, back off.” Not even a thank you. Just a threat: “We’ll move.”
William was never like this before. It’s her. Emily. She had the locks changed. She convinced him his mother is a problem—that love and care are control and intrusion. Is that fair?
Sometimes I wonder—is it my fault? Should I have stepped back sooner? But how do you stop helping when you know you can make their life easier? Isn’t that what parents are for?
Now I sit here wondering—how do I go on? My son, the boy I lived for, has turned away. All because of a woman who decided I’m in the way.
The worst part? He didn’t even realize how deep that cut went.
