My wife and I decided to leave our flat in London to our son, and moved out to the countryside. He moved in with his mother-in-law, meanwhile letting out our place.
My wife and I tied the knot at 23, and to be perfectly frank, she was already expecting when we exchanged vows. We were both fresh out of university, having read Education at Sheffield. Neither of our families had much in the way of moneyno wealthy fathers or uncles handing out favours, so everything we achieved was through sheer graft.
We started working as soon as we could. Almost from birth, our son was bottle-fed. Perhaps it was the stress or poor diet, but my wife didnt have any milk. By eleven months, he was off to nursery. There he learnt to eat with a spoon, use the potty, and sleep without being rocked. My wife and I slogged away at work.
We began in a rented place, progressed to a one-bedroom flat, then scrimped and saved for our two-bedroom home. Being country folk at heart, we dreamt of our own patch of earth and finally bought one several years ago. I built us a modest two-room brick cottage out there, brick by brick. We sorted a cooker, levelled the garden, and bought some sturdy furniture.
All was well. We could finally breathe, enjoy life. We were forty-sixnot old, not youngjust starting to live a bit for ourselves. But you cant escape your roots. Our son, at 23, up and decided to get married as well. His fiancée, Sophie, came from a wealthy family. Theyd both done law at university. Marriage was the next step.
Thats when things took a turn. Suddenly it was all: We want a posh restaurant, stretch limo, honeymoon abroad, our very own flat.
Ever since our son was born, Id wondered if we were showing him enough love. Nursery early, school earlymy wife and I always busy, as teachers so often are, taking care of other people’s children while our own fended for himself. His grandparents lived far away. But we always tried to provide whatever we could: pricey toys, comfy armchairs, nice clothes, paying for his studies, even a car for his eighteenth.
Now we agreed to support him even more. All our savings went to the wedding. My wife and I decided to give him our flat as a wedding presentso he wouldnt have to struggle as we once did. Sophies parents chipped in too, spending heaps on her side: furs, jewellery. They replaced all the furniture in our flat. Her parents had a grand countryside housethree stories, plush interiors, luxury cars.
Soon enough, our son began drifting away. Then, visits were down to one a month, and soon, not even a phone call. His brother-in-law lined up a job for him at a private firm.
Then out of the blue, we ran into a neighbour at the market, who let slip that our son hadnt lived in our flat in ages. He and Sophie were staying with his mother-in-law. Meanwhile, our flat was up for rent. My wife was devastated. I did my best to comfort her. We called our son immediately, and he was downright rude. He told us wed given them the flat, and that wed never had a penny to our names anyway. He shouted that hed always been the odd one out, and blamed us for letting him and Sophie live better than us. He said he was embarrassed to be sponging off his mother-in-law while his own parents, teachers, remained just ordinary.
We resolved not to let things end this way. We sought legal advice. Because wed never properly transferred ownership, the solicitor explained what our son had done wasnt above board. The landlord is the one with the rights to lease, and that was still me.
We decided not to take our son to court. We spoke to the tenants, explained everything; thankfully, they were very understanding and moved out without any fuss. We moved back in ourselves. But to this day, theres still no word from our son. The hurt runs deep for both my wife and me, but perhaps, with time, well find a way to mend things.
If theres anything Ive learnt from all this, its that trying to fix everything with material things is no substitute for real closeness and understanding. Family cant be boughtand the most costly gifts can sometimes bring only sorrow.
