Sometimes it feels like I’m losing my son—not physically, but emotionally, like he’s fading away right before my eyes. He’s losing himself, his spark, his strength. And all because of the woman he’s with. The one who once seemed so dependable, so right for him, but turned out to be… I don’t even know how to put it without breaking down.
James married a few years ago. He was in his thirties, had a stable career, was climbing the ladder. Back then, he’d just become director of a logistics company in Manchester. He already had a son from his first marriage, and I always thought he’d be extra careful choosing his second wife. Yeah, things moved fast with Laura. She had her own thing going—owned a chain of shops, always busy, no-nonsense, not the sentimental type. But I kept my distance. As long as he was happy.
Before the wedding, Laura lived with us for a few months. I remember thinking she was tough, didn’t chatter needlessly, kept the house spotless. James was over the moon, said he’d found *the one*. The wedding was simple but heartfelt—gifts, toasts, flowers. Then they moved into their own flat.
A couple of months later, Laura suddenly announced, *“It’s time I had a baby.”* Not exactly a young girl anymore, no time to waste. At first, she couldn’t get pregnant, then she went off to Tenerife with a friend and came back with the news: *“I’m expecting.”* James was thrilled—I just felt uneasy. But again, I didn’t interfere.
The pregnancy was rough. Laura was irritable, snapping one minute, sobbing the next. James would call me, asking if it was normal for a woman to act like that. I told him hormones could do strange things. I thought after the baby, things would settle.
They got worse. At the hospital when they left with the baby, James brought her this gorgeous bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it straight in the bin by the entrance. I looked at my son—he just stood there, shoulders slumped, lost. I didn’t know whether to hug him or scream.
Then she started going out for “errands,” leaving me with the baby. I’d come over, look after him. Her house was immaculate, everything scheduled—feeding, naps, walks. But from her? No smile, no thanks. Always tense, cold, like she was simmering under the surface. I felt like an intruder even though I was helping.
A year passed, then two. Nothing changed. James became a shadow of himself—exhausted, deflated, like his light had gone out. I tried talking to him. He blamed stress, then finally admitted, *“I don’t know how to live with her. Nothing’s ever good enough.”* He’d tried asking what was wrong, how he could fix it. Her response? Shouting, threats. *“I’ll take the baby and go to my parents. You’ll never see him again.”*
Then it got unbearable. Laura banned him from work trips. *“I’m not a babysitter. If he’s your son, *you* look after him.”* James quit as director, switched to remote work, took freelance jobs for flexibility. His salary halved. Laura started calling him *“a nobody,”* saying he was *“living off her.”* And all this, *after* he’d given up everything for her.
Last month, he got sick—proper flu, fever through the roof. I begged them to let me take my grandson so he wouldn’t catch it. Laura refused. I went over anyway. Walked in and nearly collapsed. James—sweating, red-eyed—was mopping the floor and washing dishes. She was sprawled on the sofa, scrolling her phone, and snapped, *“Does he need to just lie around? I worked through *my* fevers.”*
I sat at the kitchen table and cried. My son—a good man, kind, intelligent—had been reduced to a ghost. She’s breaking him, draining him, crushing him. And he just takes it, forgives it. I don’t know what to do. Talk to *him*—he won’t listen. Talk to *her*—pointless. She’s like a block of ice. I’m terrified one day he’ll just… break. And then I’ll lose him—for good.
