In a quaint town nestled in the Cotswolds, where charming brick cottages stand beside leafy lanes, my life was upended by my son’s heartbreaking request. I, Margaret, had always done my best to provide for my youngest, Oliver, but his recent proposition forced a choice that split our family apart.
I never wanted him to marry so young. It wasn’t that I disliked his sweetheart, Emily—he was only twenty-six, barely settled into his career. He’d only just landed a decent job in accounting, yet he swore he could support a family. Oliver had never been patient; his impulsiveness always won out. Six months ago, he married Emily, and they rented a flat in central London. But reality soon struck—their rent swallowed most of their earnings.
They resolved to save for their own home, aiming for a mortgage deposit—a worthy goal, but a steep one. Then one evening, Oliver sat me down, and his words turned my blood cold.
“Mum, Emily and I have a plan to save faster,” he began, his gaze steady. “Move into our shed in Winchester. We’ll stay in your flat instead. We’ll save on rent and get the deposit quicker.”
I froze. The shed was a tiny, drafty thing on the edge of a village—hardly fit for winters. He pressed on, oblivious to my shock.
“It’s got plumbing, electricity—everything you’d need. Just think about it, Mum! Once we’ve saved enough, you’ll move right back. It’s only temporary.”
It felt like betrayal. I’d raised him alone, sacrificing everything so he’d want for nothing, and now he asked me to give up my home for his dream. I didn’t need time to decide, but I slept on it anyway.
I knew my son. If they moved into my flat, their urgency to save would vanish. Why struggle when comfort was handed to them? Oliver had always taken the easy path. The moment life softened, his determination would crumble. He’d never leave my flat, and I’d be stuck in that frigid shed, miles from everything.
Besides, I wasn’t willing to surrender my life. I still worked, and the commute from the village would drain me. That shed was for summer weekends—not winters with no proper heating. Why should I suffer so he wouldn’t have to fight for his own future? It wouldn’t help him. It would spoil him.
The next day, I invited Oliver and Emily over to settle things. My voice shook, but I stood firm.
“I’m not moving into the shed,” I said. “But I’ll help you both financially so you can keep renting while you save.”
Oliver paled. His eyes, usually warm, flashed with hurt. Emily stayed quiet, staring at her hands.
“You only ever think of yourself,” he snapped. “We’re not asking forever—and you won’t even help!”
“Help?” My throat tightened. “I’ve spent my life helping you, Oliver. Now you want me to give up everything for your plans? That isn’t fair.”
They left without another word. After that, our relationship turned as frosty as a December morning. Calls stopped, and when I reached out, replies were short, as if I were a stranger. My heart ached—I’d lost my only son. But I knew I’d done right.
I couldn’t let him quit halfway just because comfort was handed to him. And I wouldn’t sacrifice myself so he’d never learn hardship. My life mattered too, and I’d earned my home, my comfort. Oliver is angry now, but one day he’ll see—my refusal wasn’t selfishness. It was love. Until then, I live with the hurt, hoping time will mend what’s broken.
