I showed up at my son’s door with homemade food at seven in the morning, and he slammed it right in my face. I’m absolutely certain—this is all his wife’s doing.
My husband and I have always lived for one person—our son. We had him late in life, and from day one, we swore he’d never feel the way I did growing up. My childhood was lonely; my father was gone, and my mother was cold and distant. I never knew maternal warmth, so I vowed my child would never know that pain.
Michael became our entire world. We worked non-stop—no holidays, no weekends, no life of our own—all for him. When he was in school, we took out a mortgage to buy him a flat in the next building. Ten years of repayments, but we managed. By the time he married, he already had his own place.
I’ll never forget handing him the keys at his wedding reception. His bride, Olivia, and her mum nearly burst into tears. Her mother kept going on about how she’d “do anything for her girl,” yet somehow, the dowry and all the help came from us.
We kept assisting however we could. Who else supports a young couple if not their parents? I cooked for them, cleaned, brought groceries, even helped with household bits now and then. Olivia would call to ask where certain kitchen things were—she hadn’t bought them, hadn’t put them away. I did it all with love, expecting nothing in return. Just a simple “thank you” would’ve been nice.
But gratitude, it seems, was left in another lifetime. Instead, I got irritation, resentment, and frostiness. And yesterday, it hit me—I’m no longer welcome in that house.
The day started like any other. I had to be at work by eight, so there I was at seven on Michael’s doorstep with a pot of fresh, fragrant stew. Plus, new curtains to match the dinnerware and tablecloths I’d bought them last week—a little surprise. I dug out my key… but it didn’t work. They’d changed the locks. Without a word.
I stood there, dumbstruck, like a stranger. Knocked. Michael answered. Beaming, I handed him the container, started explaining about the curtains—how well they’d go with—but he wasn’t listening. Arms crossed, face like stone.
“Mum,” he said flatly, “are you serious? It’s seven in the morning. You barge in at the crack of dawn and expect gratitude? This isn’t normal. If it happens again, we’ll move. And we won’t tell you where.”
Then—slam. Right in my face. Left me standing there, stunned, holding the food and curtains. Had to wake a neighbour to pass them along.
The commute to work was a blur, my throat tight, hands shaking. How could he? I gave up my youth for him. Never lived for myself. Helped however I could. Thought being involved was love, that they still needed me. Turns out, I’m just a nuisance. Unwanted.
People say parents owe their kids nothing. Maybe. But my husband and I? We gave everything. And now? “Mum, back off.” Not even a thanks. Just a threat: “We’ll move.”
Michael was never like this before. It’s her. Olivia. She had the locks changed. She’s convinced him I’m the problem—that love and care are just control and intrusion. But is that fair?
Sometimes I wonder—is it my fault? Should I have stepped back? But how do you stop helping when you know you could make their lives easier? Isn’t that what parents are for?
Now I sit here, wondering: what’s next? My son—the boy I lived for—has turned away. All because of some woman who decided I’m in the way.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even realise how much he hurt me.
