Our son rented out our flat without even bothering to tell us. We gave him everything, and now we’re left with nothing.
My husband, Geoffrey, and I married when we were both twenty-three. I was already pregnant, but thankfully, we’d both graduated from teacher training college by then. Our families weren’t well off—no “golden egg” inheritance, no influential relatives, no savings. From the very start, we had to work tirelessly just to get by.
I barely took maternity leave. I had no milk—whether from stress or constant hunger—so we switched our son to formula early. By eleven months, we’d enrolled him in nursery, where he learned to use a spoon, a potty, and how to fall asleep without rocking. Meanwhile, Geoffrey and I threw ourselves into work—first renting a flat, then moving into university halls, then saving for a one-bed, and finally buying a two-bed in a nice part of town.
A few years ago, we bought a cottage plot in the Cotswolds. Geoffrey built a cosy wooden home himself: two rooms, a little sauna, a wood stove. We furnished it and planted a vegetable patch. At last, it seemed we could enjoy life. We were only forty-six—still so much ahead of us.
Then our son, Trevor, decided to marry at twenty-three. His fiancée, Evelyn, came from money—they’d both studied law together. Her parents were well-off: a three-storey country house, luxury cars, a thriving business. Naturally, their daughter wanted a grand wedding—a posh venue, a limousine, a honeymoon, and… her own flat.
Geoffrey and I always felt guilty about Trevor’s childhood. He’d spent it in nurseries, school clubs, and afterschool care while we worked nonstop. We tried to make up for it with gifts—toys, clothes, holidays, private tutors. For his eighteenth, we gave him a used but reliable car. When he started university, we paid his fees. Of course, we couldn’t refuse now either. We handed over our savings for the wedding and… let him take our flat, moving permanently to the cottage.
Evelyn’s parents had a different approach—they spoiled her: a mink coat, gold jewellery, designer furniture. At first, Trevor was grateful, but he changed. Calls became fewer—once a fortnight, then once a month, until he practically vanished.
Then, one day, we bumped into our old neighbour at the market, who casually mentioned,
“You didn’t know your flat’s being rented out? Trevor and Evelyn live with her parents now—apparently, it’s more comfortable there.”
Geoffrey went pale, swaying on his feet. We called Trevor immediately, only to hear a cold reply:
“You gave me the flat. Evelyn refuses to live in your ‘old-fashioned dump,’ and renting somewhere decent costs too much. Let the tenants pay instead.”
When we tried talking about trust and decency, he snapped:
“I grew up poor! Other kids had proper parents—I got you! Teachers who only know how to preach about morals! I’m sick of being embarrassed in front of my in-laws because my parents are just ‘ordinary public workers’!”
After that, we took action. No lawsuits—just went to the flat, explained everything to the tenants. Thankfully, they understood and moved out within a month.
Now we’re back in our home. We don’t speak to Trevor anymore. Geoffrey’s heartbroken, and so am I. Yes, we gave him everything—no strings, just love. And now we’re left with empty hands and shattered hearts.
Maybe, in time, he’ll understand. Or maybe not. But one thing’s certain: never sacrifice everything for someone who doesn’t know its worth.
