**Diary Entry**
“Let them stay with you! You’re the one who raised him like this!” My ex-husband, Richard, was shouting down the phone, his voice trembling with anger. I stood there, clutching the handset, feeling my insides twist into knots. The argument was about our son, James, and his girlfriend moving in together. But Richard’s outburst made me think not just about James, but how the mistakes we’d made years ago still echoed through our family.
Richard and I divorced a decade ago. James was fifteen at the time, and the split hit him hard. One day he blamed me, the next Richard, or he’d just shut himself away. I tried to be both mother and friend—helping with schoolwork, listening to stories about his mates, driving him to football practice. Richard, though, drifted away after the divorce. He paid child support and occasionally had James for weekends, but there was no real bond between them. I watched our son miss his father, but Richard was always ‘busy’—new job, new family. I never said it out loud, but it hurt to see James so overlooked.
Now James is twenty-five. He’s grown up, graduated uni, works for a tech firm. Six months ago, he introduced me to his girlfriend, Emma. Sweet girl, works as a graphic designer, always polite and smiling. When they decided to move in together, I was happy for them. But since they couldn’t afford their own place yet, they asked to stay with me. My two-bed flat isn’t Buckingham Palace, but it’s cosy. I gave them my bedroom and took the sofa in the lounge. I assumed it’d be temporary—just until they saved enough for rent.
At first, it was fine. Emma helped around the house, James brought groceries, sometimes they’d invite me to join them for dinner. But after a few months, I noticed James growing snappy. He’d snap at Emma over little things, and one night I overheard them arguing about money. I stayed out of it—they’re adults, they can sort themselves out. Then Richard called, fuming: “Did you know your son refused to help me fix the roof at my cottage? Said he had his own plans! And that Emma girl doesn’t respect me at all!”
I was surprised. James never mentioned his dad asking for help. Turned out, Richard had expected him to drop everything and drive out to Surrey to help with repairs. James had refused, saying he had work deadlines. And Emma, according to Richard, “acted like she was too good for him.” I tried to reason with him: “Richard, they’re young, building their own lives. Maybe you’re pushing too hard?” But he exploded: “You coddled him! Turned him into a mummy’s boy, and now he’s got no respect for his father! Well, since you’re so generous, let them live with you forever!”
His words stung. *I* raised him? Where was Richard when James needed a father? I was the one who dragged him through his teenage years—the fights, the tears, the silence. But maybe Richard had a point. Had I spoiled James? Shielded him too much? I started remembering all the times I gave in—buying him whatever he wanted, smoothing over his problems. Had I made him selfish?
That evening, when Emma was at her friend’s, I asked James about it. “Your dad said you wouldn’t help him. What happened?” He scowled. “Mum, he expects me to drop my job and run to his rescue. I’ve got projects due. And Emma doesn’t owe him anything.” I nodded, but something nagged at me. He wasn’t wrong, but there was no warmth in his tone—like he couldn’t even try to see Richard’s side.
Later, I talked to Emma. She admitted Richard had made a rude joke about her once, and she’d bristled. “I didn’t mean to offend him, but he acts like I should just obey him,” she said. Then it hit me—this wasn’t just about James. Richard wanted control but gave nothing back.
That call left me thinking about our marriage, our failures. Maybe Richard and I never showed James that family means compromise. I decided not to meddle, but I did ask James and Emma to be patient—respect matters, even when tempers flare. I told Richard the same: back off, try to reconnect. He grumbled, but for once, he listened.
Now, watching James and Emma, I see us years ago—hopeful, but with so much to learn. I don’t want them making our mistakes. My flat’s their stopgap, but soon they’ll fly the nest. And I’ll be here, wondering if my son and his father will ever find common ground. Maybe one day Richard will realise raising James wasn’t just my job—it was his too.
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t just providing—it’s showing up. And sometimes, the hardest part is knowing when to step back.
