I am sixty years old and live in York. Never could I have imagined that after all I had endured, after twenty years of quiet and silence, the past would return to my life so brazenly and coldly. The bitterest part is that the one who brought it back was none other than my own son.
Once, at the young age of twenty-five, I was hopelessly in love. Georgetall, charming, full of lifeseemed the fulfilment of a dream. We married quickly, and within a year, our son Oliver was born. Those early years were like a fairy tale. We lived in a small flat, dreamed together, made plans. I worked as a teacher, and he as an engineer. It seemed nothing could shatter our happiness.
But in time, George changed. He came home late more often, lied, grew distant. I refused to believe the rumours, ignored his late returns, the scent of unfamiliar perfume. Yet eventually, the truth was undeniable: he was unfaithfulnot just once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbours, even his own parents knew. And II tried to keep the family together, for our son. I held on far too long, hoping he would come to his senses. But one night, waking to find he had not come home at all, I understood: it was over.
I packed our things, took five-year-old Oliver by the hand, and moved in with my mother. George did not even try to stop us. A month later, he left for abroadsupposedly for work. Soon, he found another woman and simply erased us from his life. No letters, no calls. Complete indifference. And I was left alone. My mother passed, then my father. Oliver and I faced everythingschool, hobbies, illnesses, joys, A-levelstogether. I worked double shifts so he would want for nothing. I never had another relationship; there was no time. He was my everything.
When Oliver was accepted at Oxford, I supported him as best I couldwith packages, money, encouragement. But I could not afford to buy him a flat; there was never enough. He never complained. He said he would manage on his own. I was so proud of him.
A month ago, he came to me with news: he had decided to marry. My joy was short-lived. He was nervous, avoiding my gaze. Then it spilled out:
“Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.”
I froze. He said he had recently reconnected with George. That his father had returned to England and was offering him the keys to a two-bedroom flatinherited from his grandmother. But on one condition: I must remarry him and let him live in my home.
My breath caught. 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. Dads changed”
Silently, I stood and walked to the kitchen. Kettle, tea, trembling hands. My vision blurred. Twenty years I had carried everything alone. Twenty years without a single word from him to ask how we were. And now he returned with an “offer.”
I went back to the parlour and said, calmly:
“No. I wont agree.”
Oliver grew furious. He shouted, accused me. Said I had always thought only of myself, that I was the reason he never had a father, that I was ruining his life again. I stayed silent. Every word cut deep. He did not know how I lay awake at night from exhaustion. How I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat. How I sacrificed everything so he could eat meat while I went without.
I am not lonely. My life has been hard but honest. I have my work, my books, my garden, my friends. I do not need a man who once betrayed meand now returns not for love, but convenience.
Oliver left without saying goodbye. He has not called since. I know he is hurt. I understand. He wants what is best for himself, just as I once did. But I cannot sell my dignity for a few square feet. The price is too high.
Perhaps one day he will understand. Perhaps not soon. But I will wait. Because I love him. Truly, without conditions, without flats and “what ifs.” I bore him and raised him out of love. And I will not let love become a transaction.
As for my ex-husband let him stay in the past. That is where he belongs.
