It breaks my heart that my son wants nothing more to do with me—his wife has torn our relationship apart.
How painful it is to face the truth—that my only child has turned away from me. That I lived my life for him, gave up so much, only to end up alone. Where did I go wrong? Maybe I’m too stubborn. Maybe I forgave too much. Maybe I loved him to my own ruin.
I raised him alone. There were men in my life, but they were useless—some wanted advantage, others escape, and a few just wanted my wages. I carried everything myself. Back in the ’90s, there was no time for tears—I worked myself to the bone just so he could eat well and go to school. I went without, never bought myself proper shoes or clothes—everything went to him.
Then I met a married man. Yes, judge me if you like, but he’s the one who helped my son find his way. He worked in the oil industry and got my son a job there. The pay wasn’t much, but it came exactly when we needed it most. It wasn’t about the money—it was the support.
My son finished college, then university, but without experience, nobody would take him. He worked in a factory but couldn’t stand it—he wanted to earn, not slave away. I backed him in everything, believing one day he’d have his own business. I poured every last penny into him, just to keep him on track.
Then he brought *her* home. Pretty, but shallow. Silly, childish beyond her years. But if he’d chosen her, I accepted it. Pregnancy, marriage, hopes. I dreamed of being a grandmother—giddy as a schoolgirl. I even organised their wedding.
A friend of mine helped—gave money for the rings. I told my daughter-in-law: *”Pick something modest. This is for both of you.”* But she chose a ring three times the budget. She didn’t care—she wanted the best, even if it meant her husband went without. From that moment, I was the enemy. Just because I set limits.
I stayed quiet. Bought them a car so he could work extra shifts. Thought I was making life easier. Then everything fell apart. The baby was difficult—crying, never sleeping. My son worked day and night, couldn’t help. Her parents started muttering: *”What kind of father is he?”* *”What kind of husband?”* They sold the car. Money dried up. Then—divorce. He started drinking. Lost his licence. Everything crumbled.
I pulled him back up. Made him stand again. He got back on his feet, even started his own business—but it’s all in my name: he had debts, bailiffs after him. And yes—he gambled. Tried to win it all back at once. Didn’t work. I helped again, paid his workers, kept the business afloat. Just so he’d make it.
When money came back—*she* came back. Now they’re together again. But he avoids me. Everything’s in my name, yet I feel like a burden. They rent a place, live their own life. She doesn’t call, doesn’t text. My granddaughter is spoiled, uninterested in anything. And my son now says *”grandmothers should help.”* I don’t refuse when they ask—but they only ask when they need something.
Then he told me: *”Quit your job, I need help.”* I quit. Now I sit without a salary, waiting for him to give me anything for food. Often, he doesn’t. Gave me a car—but won’t cover the insurance. Takes it back, then returns it. When I drove it myself—it broke down. Turns out it was faulty. I’m terrified.
I took out a loan for his car. At first, he paid it. Now—nothing. He doesn’t answer my calls. The house we lived in? He split it with his ex-wife long ago. Now he doesn’t invite me for Christmas, not even birthdays. I only come when they need me—when they want a night out and someone to mind the child.
Recently, I went to his workplace—he screamed at me. Said I embarrassed him. Why? I don’t drink. I was in the Writers’ Guild. Spent my life helping him. I just wanted to see my son.
Now they’ve blocked me. Can’t even call. I cry at night, lost. I gave that man everything—and this is how he repays me. I still apologise: *”If I ever said anything wrong—forgive me.”* But they say nothing.
I keep wondering: where did I go wrong? What did I do? Why doesn’t my son want me anymore? That question—it’s worse than any pain.
