**Diary Entry – 11th March**
I showed up at my son’s door with homemade food at seven in the morning, and he slammed it shut in my face. I know one thing for 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 the moment he was born, we promised ourselves he’d never feel the way I did growing up. My own childhood was hollow—no father, a mother who was cold and distant. I never knew a mother’s warmth, so I swore my child would never endure that loneliness.
James became our entire world. We worked tirelessly—no holidays, no weekends, no time for ourselves. Everything was for him. When he was in school, we took out a mortgage to buy him a flat in the building next to ours. It took us a decade to pay it off, but we managed. By the time he married, he already had his own place.
I’ll never forget handing him those keys at the wedding reception. His wife, Emily, and her mother nearly cried. His mother-in-law kept saying, *”I’d do anything for my girl,”* but in the end, they contributed nothing—no dowry, no help. It all came from us.
We kept supporting them however we could. Who else would? I cooked for them, cleaned, brought groceries, even helped with household bits when they needed it. Emily would ring to ask where certain kitchen things were—she hadn’t bought them, hadn’t put them away. I never expected anything in return—just a simple *”thank you.”*
But gratitude, it seems, belonged to some other time. Instead, I got irritation, cold shoulders. Then yesterday, it became clear—I’m no longer welcome in that house.
It started like any other morning. I had to be at work by eight, so at seven sharp, I was at James’s door with a dish of slow-cooked beef, fresh and fragrant. I even brought new curtains to match the dinner set and tablecloth I’d bought them last week. Wanted to surprise them. I fished out my key—but it didn’t fit. They’d changed the locks. Without a word.
I stood there, baffled. Knocked. James answered. Smiling, I held out the container, started explaining about the curtains, how they’d tie the room together… But he wasn’t listening. Arms folded, face like stone.
*”Mum,”* he said flatly, *”are you serious? It’s seven in the bloody morning. You barge in at the crack of dawn and expect me to thank you? This isn’t normal. If it happens again, we’re moving—and you won’t know where.”*
Then he shut the door. Left me standing there, stunned. I had to wake the neighbour just to leave the food with her.
On the way to work, my throat was tight, hands shaking. How could he? I gave up my youth for him. Never lived for myself. Helped every way I could. Thought being involved meant love—that they still needed me. Turns out, I’m just a nuisance. Unwanted.
People say parents owe their children nothing. Maybe that’s true. But my husband and I? We gave everything. And now—*”Mum, don’t interfere.”* Not even a thank you. Just a threat: *”We’ll leave.”*
James was never like this before. It’s her—Emily. She’s the one who changed the locks. She’s convinced him a mother’s love is control, intrusion. Is that fair?
Sometimes I wonder—was I wrong? Should I have stepped back? But how do you walk away when you could make their lives easier? Isn’t that what parents are for?
Now I sit here wondering—how do I go on? My son, my James, the boy I lived for, has shut me out. All because of a woman who decided I’m in the way.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even realise how deep that door slammed on my heart.
**Lesson learned:** Love shouldn’t cost your dignity. Some sacrifices are met with silence, and no amount of giving can buy gratitude.
