**Diary Entry**
“Let them stay with you! You’re the one who raised him like this!” My ex-husband, David, was shouting down the phone, his voice trembling with anger. I stood there, pressing the receiver to my ear, feeling everything inside me tighten. The argument was about our son, James, and his girlfriend, Emily, who had decided to move in together. But that conversation with David made me think not just about James, but about how our past mistakes had shaped our family.
David and I divorced ten years ago. James was fifteen then, and the separation hit him hard. One day he blamed me, the next his father, and sometimes he just shut himself away. I tried to be both a mother and a friend—helping with homework, listening to stories about his mates, driving him to football practice. David, though, kept his distance after the split. He paid child support and sometimes took James for weekends, but there was no real bond between them. I saw how much our son missed him, but David was always busy: new job, new family. I never said it aloud, but it hurt to watch.
Now James is twenty-five. He’s grown up, graduated from university, and works for a tech firm. Six months ago, he introduced me to Emily—a sweet girl, a graphic designer, always polite and cheerful. When they decided to move in together, I was happy for them. But with no flat of their own yet, they asked to stay with me for a while. My two-bed isn’t a palace, but there’s space. I gave them my bedroom and moved to the sofa in the lounge, thinking it’d be temporary until they saved enough for rent.
At first, it worked. Emily helped around the house, James did the shopping, and sometimes they’d invite me to join them for dinner. But after a couple of months, I noticed James getting snappy. He’d snap at Emily over little things, and once, I overheard them arguing about money. I kept out of it—they’re adults, they can sort themselves out. Then David rang, furious: “Did you know your son refused to help me with the shed repairs? Said he had his own plans! And that Emily of his has no respect for me!”
I was surprised. James had never mentioned his father asking for help. Turns out, David wanted him to come down to his place in Cornwall and fix the roofing. James said no, citing work. And Emily, according to David, “thinks too highly of herself.” I tried to calm him: “David, they’re young, they’ve got their own lives. Maybe you’re pushing too hard?” But he exploded: “You’ve spoiled him! Turned him into a mummy’s boy who doesn’t respect his father! Let them stay with you, since you’re so soft-hearted!”
His words stung. I was the one who raised him? Where was he when James needed a father? I was the one who got him through the teenage years, the fights, the tears. But maybe David’s right. Maybe I coddled James too much, and now he’s selfish. I started remembering all the times I indulged him—buying whatever he wanted, shielding him from trouble. Did I really make him too dependent?
I decided to talk to James. One evening, when Emily was out with friends, I asked, “What’s going on with your dad? He said you refused to help him.” James frowned. “Mum, he expects me to drop everything and drive to Cornwall. I’ve got deadlines, projects—I can’t just leave. And Emily doesn’t owe him anything.” I nodded, but something felt off. James made sense, but his tone was sharp, like he couldn’t even try to understand his dad.
Later, I spoke to Emily. She admitted David had made a rude joke about her once, and she’d clapped back. “I didn’t mean to upset him, but he acts like I should just bow to him,” she said. Then I realised—it wasn’t just James. David seemed to want control without giving anything in return.
That phone call made me think about so much—our failed marriage, all our mistakes. Maybe David and I never showed James that family means compromise. I won’t meddle in their row, but I’ll ask James and Emily to be patient. They’re young, they’ve got their whole lives ahead, but respecting their elders matters. I also told David to ease up and try rebuilding bridges. He grumbled but said he’d think about it.
Now, watching James and Emily, I see us in them—full of hope but tangled in the same old struggles. I don’t want them to repeat our mistakes. My flat’s their stopgap, but I know they’ll fly the nest soon. And I’ll be left with memories and this hope—that one day, my son and his father might find common ground. Maybe, just maybe, David will finally see that raising James wasn’t just my job. It was his too.
