You know, I spend holidays with my ex-daughter-in-law instead of my son’s new wife—and I won’t apologise for it.
I just turned sixty. Pension, bad knees, worn out from life and people—same as a lot of women who carried everything on their shoulders without help, without a man to lean on. In my prime, I was a hairdresser—not the easiest job, especially when you’re on your feet all day, plastering on a smile. These days, my health’s not what it was, so I only work now and then, mostly for friends.
My husband’s been out of the picture for years. We split right after my son was born—turns out he was a useless, lazy bloke who did nothing but smoke in the flat and drink with his mates. Work was beneath him, but he was brilliant at living off me. I left without looking back, finally breathed—felt lighter after. Since then, I’ve done everything myself. Alone. Raised my son alone.
I did my best with him. Tried to be both mum and dad. Yeah, I made plenty of mistakes—there just wasn’t time for heart-to-hearts. I worked myself into the ground. And when he grew up and joined the army, I thought, *Maybe now things will be different for him.*
Then he came back. Brought home a girl—quiet, warm, always smiling. Emily. Married her a few months later. I welcomed her, even let them stay with me at first. We got on like a house on fire, honestly. Never once argued. Cooked together, watched telly in the evenings, talked about everything—from recipes to books. I felt at ease with her, like she was the daughter I never had.
They moved out later. Had a son—my first grandchild. Emily didn’t want to sit around, so she went back to work. My son landed a good job, even started his own business. I was chuffed—everything worked out.
When I needed surgery, Emily didn’t hesitate—took me to a private clinic and covered it all. Not a word of complaint. Just helped. I’ll never forget that.
Then, after nine years of marriage—divorce. Oliver, my son, just walked out. Packed his bags and left. Said he’d fallen for someone else. Emily fought for the marriage, but he was ice. Later, she told me he’d been seeing someone else for two years. I couldn’t believe it.
The first time he brought this new girl round, I was gobsmacked. Vulgar, rude, manners like a market trader—swearing like a sailor, lips like a duck’s backside, empty eyes. I tried talking to him calmly: *”Are you sure this is the woman you want to spend your life with?”* He brushed me off. They’re not even getting married—his new fling *”doesn’t do holidays.”*
I didn’t argue. He’s not eighteen—his choice. But something in me snapped. Me and Emily kept in touch. She still visits with my grandson, calls me, brings soups and fruit like she used to. We never lost that bond. But with my son? It just… faded. Like he was erased from my life. Or erased himself.
I stopped expecting him on holidays. Because I knew—he’d bring *her*. And I don’t want that woman in my house. Don’t want to hear her shouting into her phone at my table. Don’t want my grandson hearing how she *”talks.”*
So at Christmas, Easter, my birthday—it’s Emily who comes. With my grandson. We set the table, have tea, share memories. We laugh. And it’s good. I don’t have to let pain into my life, even if it’s my son’s choice.
Recently, Oliver rang, said he wanted to visit. I said no. Straight up: *”Not with her. Come alone. But you won’t.”* He hung up. Radio silence since.
And you know what? It doesn’t hurt. I’ve lived a hard life. And I know who stood by me when things were worst. I won’t turn my back on someone who never turned theirs on me.
I spend holidays with my ex-daughter-in-law. Because she’s closer to me now than my own son. And no, I’m not ashamed of it.
