I showed up at my son’s door with a home-cooked meal at seven in the morning, and he slammed it in my face. I’m certain—it’s all his wife’s doing.
My husband and I have always lived for one person—our son. We had him late in life, and from day one, we swore he’d never feel the way I did growing up. I was raised without a father, and my mother was cold, distant, a stranger. I never knew a mother’s warmth, so I vowed my child would never endure that pain.
James became our whole world. We worked tirelessly—no holidays, no weekends, no rest. Everything for him. When he was in school, we took out a mortgage to buy him a flat in the neighbouring building. Ten years of repayments, tough as nails, but we managed. By the time he married, he had his own place.
I’ll never forget handing him those keys at the wedding reception. His bride, Emily, and her mum nearly wept. My new in-law kept saying, “I’d do anything for my girl,” but in the end, they contributed nothing—no dowry, no help. It all came from us.
We kept helping where we could. Who else supports a young couple if not their parents? I cooked for them, cleaned, brought groceries, even pitched in for household bits now and then. Emily would call, asking where some kitchen gadget was—she hadn’t bought it, hadn’t put it away. I did it all gladly, expecting nothing in return. Just a simple “thank you.”
But gratitude, it seems, belongs to another life. Instead, I got irritation, resentment, cold shoulders. And yesterday, it hit me—I’m no longer welcome.
The day started normally. Work at eight, so by seven, I was at James’s door with a pot of fresh, slow-cooked beef. New curtains, too, to match the dinner set and tablecloths I’d bought them last week. A little surprise. I rummaged for my key—but it didn’t fit. They’d changed the locks. No warning.
I stood there, stunned, like an intruder. Knocked. James answered. I smiled, held out the container, started explaining about the curtains—but he wasn’t listening. Arms crossed, stone-faced.
“Mum,” he said flatly, “are you serious? It’s seven in the bloody morning. You barge in at dawn and expect thanks? That’s not normal. Do it again, and we’ll move. And we won’t tell you where.”
He shut the door in my face. Left me standing there, reeling. I had to wake the neighbour to pass the food along.
On the way to work, my throat burned. I shook all over. How could he? I gave up my youth for him. Never lived for myself. Helped however I could. Thought being involved was love. That they still needed me. But no—I’m just in the way. Unwanted.
People say parents owe their kids nothing. But my husband and I? We gave everything. And more. And now—”Mum, back off.” Not even a thanks. Just a threat: “We’ll move.”
James was never like this. It’s her—Emily. She changed the locks. She’s convinced him his mother’s a burden. That love and care are control and intrusion. But is that fair?
Sometimes I wonder—maybe it is my fault? Maybe I should’ve stepped back? But how could I? How do you turn away when you know you can make their lives easier? Isn’t that what parents do?
Now I’m left wondering—what next? My son, my James, the reason I breathed—he’s turned his back. All because of some woman who decided I’m in the way.
The worst part? He doesn’t even realise how deep the cut goes.
