Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my son—not in body, but in spirit. It’s like he’s fading right before my eyes, losing himself, his will, his fire. And all because of the woman he’s with. The one who once seemed so steady, so right for him, but turned out to be… God, I don’t even have the words without wanting to scream or burst into tears.
Tom married a few years ago. He was in his thirties by then—steady job, climbing the corporate ladder. He’d just been made director of a logistics firm here 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, him and Lucy moved fast. She had her own thing going—ran a chain of boutiques, always busy, no-nonsense, not the sentimental type. I kept my distance, though. All that mattered was that he was happy.
Before the wedding, Lucy stayed with us for a few months. Back then, I thought she had grit—didn’t chatter uselessly, kept the place spotless. Tom was glowing, saying 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, Lucy suddenly announced, “It’s time I had a baby.” Not exactly a spring chicken, no time to waste. At first, it didn’t happen, then she jetted off to the Bahamas with a girlfriend, and when she came back—bam—“I’m pregnant.” Tom was over the moon. I felt uneasy but bit my tongue.
The pregnancy was rough. Lucy was irritable, snapping one minute, sobbing the next. Tom would call, asking if it was normal for a woman to act like that. I put it down to hormones, told him it’d pass. Thought things would settle after the baby came.
But it got worse. At the hospital, when they were leaving with the newborn, Tom brought her this gorgeous bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it straight into 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 leaving the baby with me while she ran errands. I’d come over, look after the little one. Her house was spotless, everything scheduled down to the minute—feeding, naps, walks. But from her? Not a smile, not a thank you. Always tense, cold, like she was biting back fury. Felt like an outsider in my own grandchild’s life, even though I did everything to help.
A year passed, then another. Nothing changed. Tom became a shadow of himself—exhausted, deflated, like the light had gone out. I tried talking to him. He blamed stress at first, then admitted, “I don’t know how to live with her. Nothing’s ever good enough.” He’d ask what was wrong, how he could fix it. She’d just shout, threaten to “take the baby and leave, and you’ll never see him again.”
Then came the real nightmare. Lucy banned him from work trips. “I’m not a nanny—*your* kid, *you* look after him.” Tom quit his director job, switched to remote work, picked up freelance gigs for flexibility. His salary halved. Lucy started calling him “a nobody,” saying he was “mooching off her.” And he’d done it all *for her*.
Last month, he got sick—proper flu, fever spiking. I begged to take the baby so he wouldn’t catch it. Lucy refused. I went over anyway. Walked in and nearly collapsed. There was Tom, sweating, red-eyed, scrubbing the floors and dishes. And her? Lazing on the sofa, glued to her phone, snarling, “What, he’s supposed to just lie around? *I* worked through fever too.”
I sat at their kitchen table and cried. My son—a man with a heart of gold, sharp as a tack, kind to his bones—had been ground down to nothing. She’s breaking him, draining him dry. And he just takes it, forgives it all. I don’t know what to do. Talk to him? He won’t hear it. Talk to *her*? Pointless. She’s like a block of ice. I’m terrified one day he’ll just… snap. And then I’ll lose him—for good.
