I am sixty and I live in Birmingham. I never imagined that after everything I have endured, after twenty years of quiet calm, the past would return to my life so coldhearted and cynical. The most painful part is that the person who sparks this comeback is none other than my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I fall head over heels for Mark tall, charming, full of life. He seems like a dream come true. We marry quickly, and a year later our son Felix is born. The early years feel like a fairytale. We share a modest flat, dream together, make plans. I work as a primaryschool teacher and he is an engineer. It seems nothing could shatter our happiness.
But as the years go by Mark starts to change. He comes home later and later, tells lies, pulls away. I try to ignore the rumors, the odd perfume on his coat, the strange hours. Eventually the truth becomes impossible to miss: he is cheating, and not just once. Friends, neighbours, even our parents all know. I cling to the marriage for Felixs sake, hoping Mark will come to his senses. One night I wake up and realise he has not returned. I understand that it is over.
I gather our things, take fiveyearold Felix by the hand and move in with my mother. Mark doesnt even try to stop us. A month later he leaves the country for work, soon finds another woman and cuts us out of his life completely no letters, no calls, just cold indifference. My mother dies, then my father. Felix and I face everything together school, hobbies, illnesses, joys, his Alevels. I take three shifts at work so he never lacks anything. I have no time for a relationship; he is my whole world.
When Felix gains a place at the University of Oxford, I support him as best I can with parcels, cash and encouragement. I cannot buy him a flat my savings simply wont stretch that far. He never complains; he says he will manage on his own. I feel proud of him.
A month ago he comes to me with news: he has decided to get married. The excitement fades quickly. He looks nervous, avoids my eyes, then blurts out:
Mom I need your help. Its about Dad.
I am stunned. He tells me he has recently reestablished contact with Mark, who has returned to the UK and is offering Felix the keys to a twobedroom flat he inherited from his grandmother. But there is a condition: I must remarry and let Mark live in my flat.
My breath catches. I stare at my son, unable to believe he is serious. He continues:
Youre alone you have no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future family. Dad has changed
I stand silently and walk to the kitchen. The kettle whistles, I make tea, my hands tremble. Everything blurs. I have carried this life alone for twenty years. In all that time Mark never once asked how we were coping. Now he returns with an offer.
I go back to the living room and say calmly:
No. I will not agree.
Felix erupts, shouting accusations, claiming I have always thought only of myself, that without me he never had a father, that I am destroying his life again. I stay quiet, because each word cuts deep. He does not know how exhausted I am at night, how I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, how I denied myself a piece of meat so he could eat.
I do not feel lonely. My life is hard but honest. I have work, books, a garden, friends. I do not need a man who once betrayed me and now returns not out of love but convenience.
Felix leaves without saying goodbye. He has not called since. I know he is hurt. I understand he wants the best for himself, just as I once did for him. But I cannot sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too high.
Perhaps he will understand someday, perhaps not. I will wait, because I love him with a true, unconditional love no conditions, no flat, no if. I gave him life and raised him out of love, and I will not let love become a commodity.
And my exhusband? He belongs in the past, where he will stay.
