I am sixty and live in Birmingham. I never imagined that after twenty years of quiet the past would return so coldly, brought back by my own son.
When I was twentyfive I fell head over heels for Martin tall, charming, full of life the man of my dreams. We married quickly, and a year later our son Harry was born. The early years felt like a fairytale. We lived in a modest flat, dreamed together, made plans. I worked as a primary schoolteacher, he as a civil engineer. It seemed nothing could shatter our happiness.
But as the years passed Martin changed. He came home later and later, told lies, kept his distance. I ignored the rumours, the strange aftershave scent, the odd hours. Eventually the truth was plain: he was cheating, and not just once. Friends, neighbours, even his parents knew. I tried to hold the family together for Harrys sake. I clung on far too long, hoping Martin would see sense. Then one night I woke up and realised he hadnt come home. It was over.
I packed our things, took fiveyearold Harry by the hand and moved in with my mother. Martin didnt even try to stop us. A month later he whisked himself off to Australia for a job. Soon he found another woman and erased us from his life. No letters, no calls total indifference. I was left alone. My mother died, then my father. Harry and I got through everything school, hobbies, illnesses, joys, his Alevels. I worked three shifts so he never wanted for anything. I had no time for a relationship; he was my whole world.
When Harry was accepted to the University of Oxford, I supported him as best I could with parcels, cash and encouragement. I couldnt buy him a flat; it was beyond my means. He never complained, saying he would manage on his own. I was proud of him.
A month ago he came to me with news: he was going to get married. The joy faded quickly. He looked nervous, avoided my eyes, then blurted out:
Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.
I was stunned. He said he had recently been back in touch with Martin. That his father had returned to England and was offering the keys to a twobedroom flat he had inherited from his grandmother. But there was a condition: I had to marry again and let Martin live in my flat.
My throat went dry. I stared at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He went on:
Youre alone you have no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future family. Dad has changed
I stood in silence, shuffled to the kitchen, boiled a kettle, hands shaking. Everything blurred. Id spent twenty years holding everything on my own. In all that time he never once asked how we were faring. And now he returns with an offer.
I walked back to the living room and said calmly:
No. I wont agree.
Harry erupted, shouting, accusing me of thinking only of myself, of denying him a father, of ruining his life again. I stayed quiet, because each word cut deep. He didnt know how exhausted I was at night, how I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, how I gave up my own comforts so he could have a proper meal.
Im not lonely. My life has been hard but honest. I have a job, books, a garden, friends. I dont need a man who once betrayed me now returning not out of love but convenience.
Harry left without saying goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt. I understand him. He wants the best for himself, as I once did for him. But I cannot sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too high.
Maybe hell understand someday, maybe not. Ill wait, because I love him a love without conditions, without flats or ifs. I brought him into the world and raised him. I will not let love become a commodity.
And my exhusband he belongs in the past, where he should stay.
