Im sixty years old and live in Cambridge. Never did I imagine that after all Ive been through, following twenty years of complete silence, the past would invade my life with such boldness and arrogance. The most painful part? The one who brought it back was none other than my own son.
At twenty-five, I was hopelessly in love. Edwardtall, charming, wittyseemed like the embodiment of a dream. We married quickly, and a year later, our son, Oliver, was born. The early years felt like a fairy tale. We lived in a small flat, dreamed together, made plans. I was a teacher; he was an architect. Nothing could shake our happinessor so I thought.
But over time, Edward changed. He came home late, lied, grew distant. I ignored the whispers, turned a blind eye to unfamiliar perfumes. But eventually, the truth was undeniable: he was unfaithfulnot once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbours, even my parents knew. I stayed, for Olivers sake, hoping Edward would change. Then one night, I woke to find his side of the bed empty and realisedenough was enough.
I packed my things, took Oliver by the hand, and left for my mothers house. Edward didnt stop us. A month later, he moved abroadsupposedly for workand soon found another woman. Silence followed. No letters, no calls. Just indifference. I raised Oliver alone. My mother passed, then my father. Through school, after-school clubs, illnesses, joys, graduationsI worked triple shifts so hed want for nothing. I put my life on hold. He was my world.
When Oliver started university in London, I supported him however I couldcare packages, money, encouragement. But a flat was beyond my means. He never complained, insisting hed manage alone. I was so proud.
Then, a month ago, he visited with news: he was getting married. My joy faded when I saw his unease. He couldnt meet my eyes before blurting out:
*Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.*
My heart froze. He explained Edward had reached out after years, offering him the keys to a two-bedroom flat inherited from his grandmotheron one condition. I had to remarry Edward and let him move into my home.
I couldnt breathe. Oliver kept pleading:
*Youre alone You have no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future family. Dads changed*
I walked to the kitchen, hands shaking as I made tea. Twenty years Id carried everything alone. Twenty years Edward never cared how we fared. And now he returnednot with regret, but a bribe.
I returned and said quietly, *No. I wont agree.*
Oliver exploded. He shouted, accused me of selfishness, of ruining his lifeagain. He said I robbed him of a father. I stayed silent. Every word cut deeper. He didnt know the nights I wept from exhaustion, the wedding ring I sold to buy him a winter coat, the meals I skipped so he could have meat.
Im not lonely. My life has been hard, but honest. I have my job, my books, my garden, my friends. I wont welcome back a man who betrayed menot for love, but convenience.
Oliver left without a goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt. I understandhe wants whats best for himself, just as I once did. But I wont trade my dignity for square footage. The price is too high.
Perhaps one day hell understand. Maybe itll take years. But Ill wait. Because I love himtruly, without conditions, without flats or bargains. I brought him into this world with love. I raised him with love. And I wont let love become a transaction now.
As for Edward? The past is where he belongs.
