**Diary Entry**
In my old age, my son stopped speaking to me. He went back to the woman who had already broken his heart once before.
Every mother dreams only the best for her child—someone to love by their side, work that brings them joy, a life free from pain and disappointment. But so often, children don’t listen. They make the same mistakes, stepping on the same rakes. That’s what happened with my eldest son. After the divorce, I thought he had learned. And then—one step back into that same abyss.
When he first returned from university, young and hopeful, he met a girl named Emily. Our little town in Yorkshire quickly brought me the rumours: she had a bad reputation, too many lads, constant rows with her parents. But I decided to give her a chance. I’m a mother, after all. Meeting her would help me understand who had won my boy’s heart.
I scrubbed the flat spotless, made a roast dinner, set the table. And when she arrived… chewing gum, a defiant look in her eye, a brazen manner. Not a single “How do you do?” No respect in her words. The impression she left was of someone who couldn’t care less about anyone else.
People asked me then, “Margaret, can’t you see what kind of mess he’s getting into?” I could. Of course I could. But William was blind with infatuation. Within a month, they’d already applied for a marriage license. Her parents paid for everything. I stayed quiet. I hoped love would change her.
But miracles don’t happen. Emily didn’t cook, didn’t clean, ordered takeaway every night, and when my son came home exhausted—she’d throw fits. He would come to me in tears, drink his tea, and then go back to her. Until they split up. Quietly. No arguments. Six months later.
I saw how he suffered. Closed off. Silent. Avoiding conversations. And me—like any mother—tried to help. I introduced him to my old friend’s daughter. Clever, kind, quiet. Not a beauty, but warm-hearted. They started seeing each other, walking, laughing, making plans. In my mind, I was already picturing grandchildren. But then…
Emily came back.
First, it was calls. Then visits. Then William started disappearing again. One day, he went to that girl—the one who had helped him stand on his own two feet—and told her they were “too different.” A week later, he told me he was marrying again. Emily.
I couldn’t believe my ears. I asked him, “Why? You’ve been through this! You know how it ends.” He just stayed silent. When he finally found the courage, he called and said, “Mum, don’t come to the wedding. I know how you feel about her. I don’t want to ruin the day for you or for me.”
He shut me out. Me—the mother who stayed awake nights, who held his hand when he didn’t have the strength to get out of bed. For whom? For the woman who shattered him once before. For someone even her own parents couldn’t defend.
I wouldn’t have gone. I know that. But hearing it—it was like a slap to the face.
Now I often think: I had two sons. Now, only one. Though both still live. But one has erased me from his life. And for what? Because I was honest? Because I wanted to spare him pain?
They say you must never give up on your children, no matter what. But what do you do when the child is the one shutting you out, ignoring you, pushing you away? When your words, your care, are just a burden he shrugs off like dead weight?
I don’t curse. I don’t rage. I’m just tired. Tired of waiting for him to open his eyes. Tired of hoping that one day he’ll say, “Mum, you were right.” I don’t wait anymore. My youngest is here. He helps, he calls, he visits. He has a family, he has a conscience.
And William? He has only Emily.
