Oh, I’ve got this story to share, and it’s just heartbreaking. So, I went to visit my son, and can you believe it? He put me up in a hotel!
We live in this lovely little village by the River Thames, where the air smells of blooming gardens and everything feels peaceful. Our home’s always open—spare room ready, and if it’s full, we’ll happily give up our own bed just to make sure everyone’s comfortable. That’s how we were raised: feed them, keep them warm, make sure they’ve got a place to sleep. Family and friends are always welcome, no questions asked.
We’ve got three kids. Our eldest, Emily, lives nearby in a little town just a short drive away. We see her almost every week, and her husband—bless him—is an absolute gem, always helping out with chores. Couldn’t ask for better.
Then there’s Charlotte, our youngest. She’s off at uni in the city, chasing her dreams, and I fully support her. Kids can wait—you’ve got to go after what you want while you’re young, right? She calls all the time, stays close even when she’s busy.
But our son, James… well, he moved far away, up to the Lake District after uni. Started a business with a mate, got completely wrapped up in it. He’s got a wife, Olivia, and my sweet six-year-old grandson, Alfie. But Olivia… we just don’t click. She’s from a different world—cold, reserved, never seems happy with anything. Thinks our village is dull, and she’s even turned Alfie against visiting us. Last time they came, they lasted two days before Olivia said she “couldn’t breathe” here. James visits alone sometimes, just to avoid the rows.
This year, my husband had some time off, so we decided to visit James. We’d never been to his place before, and we were so excited to see how he’d settled in. Of course, we gave them plenty of notice—didn’t want to just turn up unannounced.
James met us at the train station with a smile. Olivia, surprisingly, had laid out a little spread—nothing fancy, but still. We laughed, caught up, and I started thinking maybe things weren’t so bad after all. But then evening came, and my heart just sank. James calmly told us we’d be staying in a hotel. A *hotel*? I thought I’d misheard. We’re his parents, coming to visit, and he’s sending us to a hotel?
By eight, he’d called us a taxi and dropped us off at this grubby little place. Freezing, damp, creaky bed, and the whole room smelled of mould. My husband and I just sat there, stunned. I would’ve happily slept on their floor—I don’t need luxury! But turns out Olivia had put her foot down: no room for us in their house.
Next morning, we woke up starving. No kitchen in the hotel, and the nearby café was way out of our budget. We rang James, and he told us to come over for breakfast. Spent the whole day at their flat while he and Olivia were at work. Alfie kept us entertained with his little stories, but it still felt so hollow. Evening rolled around—dinner, then back to the hotel. By the third day, we couldn’t take it anymore, changed our tickets and headed home early, cutting short this so-called “hospitality.”
Back home, I poured my heart out to Emily. She was furious. Grabbed her phone and gave James a piece of her mind. Me? I just sat there crying—how could my son, the one I raised with so much love, treat me like this? Haven’t spoken to him since. No calls, no apology, like nothing even happened.
Our neighbour heard about it and just shrugged. “That’s how it is these days, love. Young people value their space. At least he didn’t leave you on the street—he paid for the room.” But that’s no excuse to me. Our home’s always been full—sleeping on air mattresses, sofa beds, whatever, but *together*, like a family. This? A hotel, like we’re strangers.
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. But it *hurts*. My girls would never do this to me. Did I really raise a son who’s forgotten what home means? How am I supposed to live with that?
