My son treated me and his younger sister so cruelly that I still can’t believe it. His betrayal felt like a knife to the heart, shattering the trust I had in him all my life. This is a story of a mother’s love, broken hopes, and a family tragedy that left us all in ruins.
My name is Margaret Williams, and I’m 62 years old. I live in a small town in southern England, where I raised two children—my son, Edward, and my daughter, Emily. Recently, I asked Edward to move out of the flat he shared with his family so Emily could move in. But what we saw when we walked inside left us in shock. Edward and his wife, Olivia, didn’t just leave—they destroyed everything: ripped off the wallpaper, tore up the laminate flooring, took the light fixtures, curtain rods, even the bathtub and toilet. I’m certain it was revenge, and I suspect Olivia encouraged him.
Ten years ago, when Edward married Olivia, I inherited a two-bedroom flat from my aunt. At the time, the newlyweds were expecting their first child, so I let them stay there to help. “Live there for now,” I said. “But it’s not a gift—it’s temporary until you buy a place of your own.” The flat was old and hadn’t been updated, as my elderly relative had lived there. Edward and Olivia, with help from her parents, renovated it—replaced the windows, wiring, plumbing, and bought all new furniture. I was happy they made it comfortable, but I always reminded them: the flat wasn’t theirs.
Years passed. Edward and Olivia had two children, enrolled them in the local nursery and school. They settled in, and it seemed they forgot my warnings. In ten years, they never saved for a mortgage or took a step toward buying their own home. Their life was stable, and I stayed quiet, not wanting to disrupt their happiness. But everything changed when Emily, my younger daughter, announced she wanted to move out. She’s 24, just finished university, started her job, and dreams of independence and marriage. I decided it was time to let her have the flat.
When I told Edward he had to leave, he went pale. “You’re throwing us out?” he snapped. Olivia stayed silent, but her expression was full of resentment. “I warned you the flat was never yours forever,” I said firmly. “You’ve had years to buy your own place. Rent somewhere or move in with Olivia’s parents.” I gave them a month to find a new home, but that month became a nightmare. We argued every day—Edward yelled that I was ruining their lives, Olivia accused me of being unfair. I stood my ground, but my heart broke at their hatred.
Finally, they moved out. Emily and I went to the flat to clean before she moved in. But what we saw was worse than any nightmare. The place was in ruins—bare walls, ripped-up flooring, missing light fittings, even the bathtub and toilet were gone. I shook with anger and pain, calling Edward: “How could you do this to me and your sister? It’s despicable!” He snapped back, “I won’t hand Emily a fully done-up flat! Olivia and I paid for everything—money, time, effort. Why should I give her that for free?”
His words crushed me. Emily, standing beside me, was in tears. She’s only 24, with no savings for repairs, and I can’t help—my pension barely covers my own needs. The flat is uninhabitable, while Edward and Olivia seem to revel in our suffering. I gave them shelter, support, and they repaid me with wreckage. This isn’t just revenge—it’s a betrayal I can’t forgive. My daughter has no home now, and I’ve lost faith in my own son. I keep asking myself: where did I go wrong raising him?
