I am sixty years old, living in York. Never did I imagine that after twenty years of silence and peace, the past would creep back into my lifeso brazenly, so cruelly. And the bitterest twist? The one who summoned it was my own son.
Once, at twenty-five, I was wildly in love. Edwardtall, charming, full of lifeseemed like the answer to every dream. We married quickly, and within a year, our son Oliver was born. Those early years were like a fairy tale. We lived in a tiny flat, made plans, laughed together. I taught at a primary school; he worked as an engineer. Nothing could touch us.
But slowly, Edward changed. He stayed out late, lied, grew distant. I ignored the whispers, the scent of strange perfume, the knowing looks from friends and neighbours. Then, the truth was undeniable: he was unfaithful. Not once, but repeatedly. I clung to the marriagefor Olivers sake. I endured far too long, hoping hed change. But one night, waking to find his side of the bed still empty, I knew: enough.
I packed our things, took five-year-old Oliver by the hand, and moved in with my mother. Edward didnt try to stop us. A month later, he left for a job abroad. Soon, he found another woman and erased us from his life. No letters, no calls. Nothing. And I was left alone. My mother passed, then my father. Oliver and I faced everything togetherschool, scraped knees, exams, triumphs. I worked double shifts, sold my wedding ring to buy him a coat, went without so hed never lack. Romance? There was no time. He was my world.
When Oliver got into university in Edinburgh, I sent care packages, money, encouragement. But I couldnt afford a flat for him. He never complained. “Ill manage,” he said. I was so proud.
Then, last month, he visited with news: he was getting married. My joy crumbled when I saw his nervousness, the way he wouldnt meet my eyes. Then it spilled out:
“Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.”
My breath froze. Hed reconnected with Edward, whod returned to Englandand now offered Oliver the keys to a two-bedroom flat hed inherited. But there was a condition: I had to remarry him, let him live in my home.
I couldnt speak. Oliver kept going:
“Youre alone Youve no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future. Dads changed”
Silently, I walked to the kitchen. Boiled the kettle, made tea, hands shaking. Twenty years Id carried us alone. Twenty years without a word from him. And now thisthis *bargain*.
I returned and said, quietly, “No. I wont do it.”
Oliver shouted then. Accused me of selfishness, of robbing him of a father, of ruining his life now. I stayed silent. Every word cut deeper. He didnt know how Id wept from exhaustion, gone hungry so he could eat, given up every comfort for him.
Im not lonely. My life is simple, but honestmy job, my books, my garden, my friends. I wont take back a man who betrayed me, who returns not for love, but convenience.
Oliver left without a goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt. I understand. He wants whats best for him, just as I once did. But I wont sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too high.
Maybe one day hell see that. Maybe not soon. But Ill wait. Because I love himtruly, without flats or “if”s. I brought him into this world with love, raised him with it. And I wont let love become a transaction.
As for Edward? Let him stay in the past. Thats where he belongs.
