**Diary Entry**
I went to visit my son, and he sent me to a hotel!
In our peaceful village by the River Thames, where the air is always sweet with the scent of blossoming gardens, my husband and I live in a spacious home with an open-door policy for family and friends. We always have a cosy guest room ready, and if we run out of space, we’d gladly give up our own bed to make sure everyone is comfortable. That’s how we were raised—feeding, warming, and sheltering loved ones is sacred. Our home has never turned away kin.
After years of marriage, we raised three children. Our eldest, Emily, lives nearby in a neighbouring town, and we see her almost every week. Her husband is a real gem—always ready to lend a hand with chores. I couldn’t have asked for a better son-in-law.
Our youngest, Sophie, is studying in the city. She dreams of building a career, and I support her—there’s time for children later, but dreams must be chased while you’re young. She calls often, keeping us updated, and I know she’d always find time for us.
Then there’s our son, James. He moved far away, to a town in Yorkshire. After university, he started his own business with a friend and is now completely absorbed in work. He has a wife, Victoria, and their six-year-old son, my darling grandson Oliver. But Victoria and I have never quite gotten along. She’s from a different world—cold, distant, always discontent. Our village bores her, and she’s even turned Oliver against visiting us. The last time they came, they barely lasted two days before Victoria complained she couldn’t “breathe.” James visits alone sometimes, just to avoid arguments.
This year, my husband had leave from work, so we decided to visit James. In all these years, we’d never seen his home, and we were eager to. Of course, we let him know in advance—we didn’t want to drop in unannounced.
James met us at the station with a smile. Victoria, to my surprise, had set the table—modest, but still thoughtful. We chatted and laughed, and I started to think maybe things weren’t so bad. But when evening came, my heart sank. James announced we’d be staying in a hotel. I thought I’d misheard. A hotel? His own parents, coming to visit, and he sends us to a hotel?
By eight, he’d called a cab and taken us to a shabby room—cold, damp, the bed creaking, the faint smell of mould in the air. My husband and I sat in stunned silence. I couldn’t believe our son could do this. I’d have happily slept on their floor—it wasn’t about comfort! But Victoria, it turned out, had made it clear—we weren’t welcome in their home.
The next morning, we woke hungry. The hotel had no kitchen, and the nearby café cost more than we could afford. We called James, and he told us to come over for breakfast. We spent the whole day in their flat while he and Victoria were at work. Oliver, at least, kept us entertained with his stories, but my heart ached all the same. Dinner came, then another cab ride back to that wretched hotel. On the third day, we couldn’t take it anymore—we changed our tickets and left early.
At home, I confided in Emily. She was furious. She rang James straight away and gave him a piece of her mind. As for me? I just sat and wept. How could my son, the boy I raised with so much love, treat me like this? He hasn’t called, hasn’t apologised—as if nothing happened.
When my neighbour heard about it, she just shrugged. “That’s how it is these days, love. The younger lot care about their space. At least he paid for the room.” But that’s no excuse to me. Our home has always been full—mattresses on the floor, sofa beds unfolded, everyone under one roof, as family should be. But this? A hotel, like we were strangers.
Maybe I *am* old-fashioned. But the hurt is crushing. My girls would never do this. Did I raise a son who’s forgotten what home means? How do I live with that?
