Long ago, when my youngest was but four and the eldest ten, my husband and I parted ways. I was left alone to raise two sons, with no second marriage in sight—there was no time, only endless work, keeping a home, and scraping by. My mother was my sole comfort, tending the boys while I toiled at two jobs, seeing them off to school and feeding them when I could not.
I take pride in how my sons turned out—handsome, clever, and well-schooled. The eldest married long ago, building his own home with his wife’s kin, far from here. But the youngest? Ah, he was where I placed all my dreams. Nearer in spirit, nearer in distance.
When he went off to university, I made a desperate choice—I left for work in France, scrubbing floors and tending the elderly, saving every pence not for myself, but for him. Because if I did not, who would?
When he announced his wish to marry, I rejoiced. I’d met the girl but twice—quiet, polite enough, or so she seemed. Little did I know how well she wore a mask.
I gave them everything. The flat I’d sweated for abroad, sleeping in cold rooms, hauling water. The wedding they’d dreamed of—the dress, the feast, the photographer. The eldest did not begrudge it; he had his own path, building his home in another town. But the youngest was close. I imagined grandchildren, evenings round their table, being needed.
Yet life, it seems, always finds a way to wound.
Weeks after the wedding, I stopped by with fruit and home-cooked dishes, hoping to see them settled. I expected no grand welcome, only kindness. But—
My daughter-in-law greeted me with the stern face of a clerk. She sat me down with tea, then said plainly, “Margaret, let us agree—we’ll meet only at holidays. It’s simpler so. Fewer misunderstandings, fewer quarrels. Our bond will be the stronger for it.”
I nearly dropped my cup. “Pardon?”
“Well, you don’t mind, do you? It’s best for everyone.”
I sat stunned. This girl, for whom I’d provided a home, whose wedding I’d paid for, now dictated when I was welcome and when I was not.
Before the wedding, she’d been all honeyed words, as though afraid I’d glimpse her true nature. Now, with all secured, the mask had slipped.
But worse was my son’s silence. Not a word in my defence. Not an embrace, not a “Mum, you’re always welcome.” He stood aside, as though it were no concern of his.
I left with shaking hands, choking back tears all the way home. I’d worked like an ox my whole life—not for myself, but for them. In my later years, I’d wished only to be near. To be a grandmother. To be a mother still wanted.
The eldest understood at once. “Mum,” he said, “you deserve better. I’m ashamed of how my brother acts—and her. You’re not alone.”
True, he stands by me. But it does not ease the hurt. I asked for nothing but love and respect. No money, no demands—only to be part of their lives.
Now I sit in my own flat and wonder what to do. The pain is deep, the sting of betrayal sharper still. My kindness mistaken for weakness, my labours tossed to the wind.
Do I smile at holidays and pretend? Or cease all efforts to mend what’s broken?
For I no longer feel a mother. I feel a stranger. In the flat I gave them. In the family I helped to build.
