**Diary Entry**
In my later years, my eldest son stopped speaking to me. He went back to the woman who’d already broken his heart once before.
Every mother wants only the best for her child—someone to love, work that fulfils them, a life without pain or regret. But as often happens, children don’t listen. They make the same mistakes, step on the same rake. That’s how it was with my son. After the divorce, I thought he’d learned his lesson. And then—straight back into the same abyss.
When he first came home after uni, young and hopeful, he met a girl named Chelsea. Our little town in Yorkshire didn’t take long to whisper the rumours: she had a reputation, always surrounded by lads, rowing with her parents. Still, I gave her a chance. I’m his mother, after all. Meeting Chelsea meant understanding who’d captured my boy’s heart.
I scrubbed the flat till it shone, made a proper roast, set the table. And then she arrived—chewing gum, eyes sharp as knives, attitude written all over her. No hello, no respect in her words. Left me with the impression she couldn’t care less about anyone else.
People asked me, *”Margaret, can’t you see the mess he’s getting into?”* Of course I could. But William was blind back then. Within a month, they’d applied for a marriage licence. Chelsea’s parents paid for everything. I stayed quiet. I hoped love would change her.
No such luck. She never cooked, never cleaned, lived off takeaways, and when William came home exhausted, she’d start a row. He’d turn up at mine in tears, drink his tea, then go straight back to her. Until they split. Quietly, without drama. Six months later.
I watched him suffer. He shut down, went silent, dodged conversations. Like any mother, I tried to help. Introduced him to my old friend’s daughter—sensible, kind, steady. Not a stunner, but warmhearted. They started seeing each other, went on walks, laughed, made plans. I’d already imagined holding their future children. But then—
Chelsea came back.
First, it was calls. Then visits. Then William started vanishing again. One day, he told that kind girl—the one who’d helped him stand on his own two feet—that they were *”just too different.”* A week later, he rang me to say he was marrying Chelsea. Again.
I couldn’t believe my ears. *”Why?”* I asked. *”You already know how this ends!”* He just stayed silent. When he finally found his voice, he said, *”Mum, don’t come to the wedding. I know how you feel about her. Don’t want to ruin the day for either of us.”*
He shut me out. Me—the mother who stayed up nights, who held his hand when he couldn’t drag himself from bed. For what? For the woman who shattered him before. For the girl even her own parents can’t defend.
I wouldn’t have gone. I know that. But hearing it—it was like a slap.
Now I often think: I had two sons. Now there’s one. Both alive, but one’s erased me from his life. And for what? For honesty? For trying to spare him pain?
They say you should never turn your back on your children, no matter what. But what do you do when it’s the child who does the turning? When your words, your care, are just baggage to be shrugged off?
I don’t curse him. I’m not angry. Just tired. Tired of waiting for him to see sense. Tired of hoping he’ll ever say, *”Mum, you were right.”* I’ve stopped waiting. My younger son’s still here—helping, calling, visiting. He’s got a family. He’s got a conscience.
And William? He’s got Chelsea.
