**A Mother’s Diary: Watching My Son Fade Away**
Sometimes, I feel like I’m losing my son—not in body, but in spirit. He’s slipping through my fingers, vanishing before my eyes, his fire dimming. And it’s all because of the woman he shares his life with. The one who once seemed so steady, so right for him, but has turned into… I barely have the words without choking on tears or rage.
Thomas married a few years ago. He was in his thirties then, with a stable career climbing the ranks. He’d just been promoted to director of a logistics firm here in Manchester. He already had a son from his first marriage, and I’d always assumed he’d be extra careful choosing a second wife. But it happened fast with Clara. She seemed driven—ran a chain of boutique shops, always busy, no-nonsense, not one for sentiment. I held my tongue. As long as he was happy.
Before the wedding, Clara lived with us for a few months. Back then, I thought she was just strong-willed—efficient, kept the house tidy, didn’t chatter needlessly. Thomas was glowing, convinced he’d found *the one*. The wedding was small but warm—gifts, toasts, flowers. Then they moved into their own flat.
Two months later, Clara announced, “It’s time I had a baby.” No room for debate—her age, she said, wouldn’t wait. At first, she struggled to conceive. Then she jetted off to the Canaries with a friend and returned with the news: “I’m pregnant.” Thomas was overjoyed. I felt a knot in my stomach. But again, I said nothing.
The pregnancy was brutal. Clara was sharp-tongued, volatile—weeping one moment, snapping the next. Thomas would call, uneasy. *Is this normal?* Hormones, I’d say. I thought things would settle after the birth.
They only got worse. At the hospital, Thomas brought her an extravagant bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it into the bin by the entrance. I caught his face—lost, shoulders slumped. I didn’t know whether to hold him or scream.
Soon, she started leaving their son with me while she ran errands. I’d drop everything to babysit. The house was immaculate, every detail scheduled—feedings, naps, walks. But not a shred of warmth from her. Just tight-lipped irritation. I felt like an intruder in my own grandson’s life.
Years passed. Nothing changed. Thomas became a ghost of himself—drained, defeated. When I pressed him, he’d blame exhaustion. Then, finally: *I don’t know how to live with her. Nothing’s ever enough.* He’d beg her to talk, to tell him how to fix things. Her answer? Shouting. Threats. *I’ll take your son and you’ll never see him again.*
Then came the final blow. Clara banned him from business trips—*I’m not your babysitter.* Thomas quit his director’s role, took remote work, odd jobs with flexible hours. His salary halved. Now she sneers that he’s *useless*, *a burden*. All this, when he sacrificed everything for her.
Last month, he fell ill—flu, feverish and weak. I begged to take my grandson so he could rest. She refused. I went anyway. The sight crushed me: Thomas, sweat-drenched, scrubbing floors while she lounged on the sofa, phone in hand. *Why should he lie around? I’ve worked through fevers.*
I sat at their kitchen table and wept. My son—bright, kind-hearted, the sort of man who’d give you his last pound—is a shadow. She’s grinding him down, drop by drop. And he takes it. I’m helpless. He won’t listen. She’s ice. I wake terrified that one day, he’ll break. And I’ll lose him for good.
