Im sixty, living in Birmingham, and never in my wildest teenage fantasies did I imagine that after twenty years of blissful quiet, the past would pop back into my life with the subtlety of a drunken uncle at a wedding. The kicker? The one who triggered the comeback is none other than my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I was headoverheels for David tall, charming, full of life the sort of bloke youd expect to see in a romance novel. We married in a blur, and a year later our son Oliver arrived. The early years felt like a fairytale: a cosy flat, shared dreams, joint plans. I taught at a primary school, he worked as a civil engineer. It seemed nothing could dent our happiness.
Then, as the calendar pages turned, David started to drift. Hed come home later and later, tell little fibs, and suddenly there was a whiff of foreign perfume in the hallway. I tried to write it off, chalking it up to work stress, but eventually the truth strutted in: he was cheating, and not just once. The neighbours, the local gossip, even our own families knew. I clung to the marriage for Olivers sake, hoping David would see the error of his ways. One night I woke up to an empty bed and realised the charade was over.
I packed up, took fiveyearold Oliver by the hand, and moved in with my mother. David didnt even bother to argue. A month later he vanished overseas for work, soon found a new partner, and cut us off completely no letters, no calls, just a polite shrug. My mother passed away, then my father. Oliver and I tackled everything together school, hobbies, illnesses, triumphs, his Alevels. I worked three shifts to make sure he never wanted for anything. Romance? There was no time for that; Oliver was my whole world.
When Oliver earned a place at Oxford, I did what I could sending parcels, a few quid, endless encouragement. I couldnt buy him a flat; my savings simply didnt stretch that far. He never complained, insisting hed manage on his own. I swelled with pride.
A month ago he came home, eyes bright, and announced he was getting married. The joy fizzled quickly when he grew nervous, averted my gaze, and blurted out:
Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.
I felt my heart freeze. Hed recently reestablished contact with David, who had apparently returned to England and was offering Oliver a twobedroom flat hed inherited from his grandmother on one condition: I must remarry him and let him live in my flat.
My breath caught. I stared at my son, halfexpecting a joke. He pressed on:
Youre alone youve got no one. Why not give it another go? For me. For your future family. Dads changed
I shuffled to the kitchen, kettle whistling, hands trembling. Twenty years of holding the fort alone swirled in my mind. In all that time David never once asked how I was faring. And now, with a generous offer, he waltzes back into the picture.
I returned to the living room, steadied my voice, and said:
No. I wont agree to that.
Oliver erupted, shouting accusations, claiming Id always been selfish, that without me hed never have had a father, that I was about to ruin his life again. I stayed silent, because each of his words cut deep. He didnt know how many sleepless nights I endured, how I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, how I gave up my favourite meals just so he could have a proper dinner.
Im not lonely. My life is hard but honest. I have work, books, a garden, friends. I dont need the man who once betrayed me and now returns not out of love but convenience.
Oliver left without a proper goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt; I understand his longing for the best the same longing I once felt for him. But I wont barter my dignity for a few square metres. The price is simply too steep.
Maybe one day hell see why. Maybe not. Ill wait, because I love him the pure, unconditional sort that isnt tied to flats or ifs. I gave him life out of love, and I wont let that love be turned into a commercial deal.
As for David let him stay where he belongs: firmly in the past.
