I knew I had been a terrible mother. I came to see my son—”I don’t have a mother,” he replied and walked away.
When Edward turned three, our family fell apart—my husband packed his things and left. No explanations, no regrets. I was alone with a child, no support, an empty wallet, and bitter resentment in my heart. A few months later, I accepted a job abroad, hoping to stand on my own two feet and give my son a better future.
I left Eddie in my mother’s care. She was the one who took him to nursery, taught him nursery rhymes, pressed his school uniform when he started year one. She was the one who soothed him at night when he cried from loneliness. And me? I sent parcels, money, letters. But visits—rare. Always something in the way: work, life, new relationships.
Yes, I fell in love. In another city, another country, another man. And at some point, I realised my son didn’t fit into that new life. I tried not to admit it, but it was the truth. He became something distant, burdensome—a heavy reminder of what I’d run from.
When Edward finished school, he got into university. Graduated with honours. Landed a job at an international firm and moved to Germany. Flew around the world, climbed the ladder. I was proud, though from afar.
Once, in France, he met a girl named Isabelle. Turned out she was from England too. Love sparked between them. Soon, they moved in together. When Isabelle got pregnant, they decided to return to London, had a small wedding, bought a flat. Their son, Oliver, was born. Edward dreamed of a big family, but his wife felt differently—she wanted more time for herself.
He took more business trips but tried to make up for it with money, gifts, holidays. Burned himself out, convinced he was doing right by them.
One day, he came home early—two months ahead of schedule. Isabelle wasn’t there. Oliver was playing with the nanny. The woman hesitated, said his wife had gone to yoga. Something in her voice was off. As Edward unpacked gifts, Oliver ran up, grabbed a toy, and exclaimed:
“I already have this one! Uncle Henry gave me the same one!”
Everything became clear. Isabelle confessed: she’d been seeing Henry for over a year, and she wasn’t about to hide it. “You’re always flying somewhere. I got tired of being alone,” she said.
The next day, Edward filed for divorce. “I won’t stop you seeing Oliver. But the flat’s mine. Figure out where you and your lover will live,” he said, calm but firm. She begged to keep the place—what about Oliver’s home? He refused to bend.
Two weeks later, she stood at his door with their son:
“Henry and I are leaving. Let Oliver stay with you for now. I’ll come back for him when we’re settled.”
“He doesn’t want a child in the way, does he?”
She said nothing.
So began their new life together. Edward quit his job, started his own business to stay close to Oliver. At first, the boy asked about his mother, but eventually, he stopped. Isabelle never called, never visited. Edward never remarried—betrayal had left a permanent scar.
Years passed. Oliver grew up. One grey evening, a woman approached their door. Older, guilt in her eyes.
“I barely tracked you down. I want to see my son. I know I did everything wrong—”
Oliver glanced silently at his father, who nodded.
“Yes. This is your mother.”
The boy lifted his head and spoke softly:
“I don’t have a mother.”
He turned and walked inside. I stood frozen, staring into her hollow eyes. No words were needed.
“You heard him. Don’t come back.”
I shut the door behind me and went to my son. Beyond that door—that was my real family.
