I stand by my ex-daughter-in-law, and my son calls it betrayal.
This is the story of a mother whose heart won’t stay silent when someone she cares about is in need.
“Jean, why do you keep involving yourself?” my friends whisper. “She’s nothing to you now. He’ll marry again and forget you ever existed. And when your grandson grows up, he won’t remember either. You’re just wasting your nerves and your pennies.”
But I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I raised my son without a father’s guidance, and now I’m paying the price for what I failed to give him—a conscience.
My Henry married seven years ago. His wife, Emily, came to our town of York to study. They moved in together almost straightaway, rented a flat, and started building their little life. With Emily, things never quite clicked for me. We weren’t openly hostile, but there was always an invisible wall between us.
I kept my distance. I worked long hours, not ready to retire just yet. I visited when invited and dropped by occasionally on my own.
A couple of years later, their son, Tommy, was born. The family stayed in their rented flat, dreaming of a mortgage. But as soon as the little one started nursery, the arguments began.
Henry swore to me there was no other woman involved. But a mother knows when something’s wrong. Sure enough, once Tommy began nursery, my son filed for divorce.
“Mum, don’t make a drama out of it. I’ll pay child support. Besides, Lily’s pregnant now—she’s my family. Emily can sort herself out. She can go back to her parents in the countryside—the air’s cleaner there,” he said, avoiding my eyes.
We argued badly. Emily had no intention of leaving—in her village near Leeds, there were no jobs, no nurseries. And her parents weren’t exactly waiting with open arms. She started searching for a room to rent because she couldn’t afford the flat alone.
I stayed in touch with her. When my niece passed down her son’s old clothes, I offered to deliver them—Tommy needed to try them on. I arrived at lunchtime just as Emily was feeding him. She offered me a bowl of stew.
“Don’t like stew without meat,” the little boy muttered. “Mum didn’t buy any chicken ‘cause we had to pay the rent.”
Emily turned toward the window and wept silently.
I couldn’t take it. I asked if I could take Tommy out for a walk. I bought groceries, some sweets. As I walked back, I remembered my own childhood, eating watery broth at my grandmother’s after the war. Back then, it was hardship—now, it was just a father’s indifference.
From that day on, I started helping her with money. My son didn’t know—until Tommy accidentally let it slip.
“Nice, isn’t it? You can’t even buy your granddaughter a bike, but you’re paying their rent!” Henry exploded.
“Do you want your son sleeping in a train station?” I shot back. “You walked away from your responsibility, and she’s fighting alone. I’m ashamed of you. So I’m paying—trying to make up for your heartlessness.”
“So you’ve chosen some stranger over your own son?”
Maybe so. But my grandson—he’s no stranger. And as long as I’m alive, he won’t be eating broth with no meat in it. Even if my son never understands.
