I came to my son’s with homemade food at seven in the morning, and he slammed the door in my face. I’m certain—this is all his wife’s doing.
My husband and I have always lived for one person—our son. We had him late, and from the very first day, we swore he’d never feel the loneliness I did as a child. I grew up without a father, and my mother was distant, cold—like a stranger. I never knew a mother’s warmth, so I vowed my child would never feel that same ache.
Charlie became our whole world. We worked without holidays, without weekends, without a moment for ourselves—all for him. When he was in secondary school, we took out a mortgage to buy him a flat in the next building. Ten years of repayments. It was hard, but we managed. By the time he married, he already had his own place.
I’ll never forget handing him the keys at the wedding reception. His bride, Emma, and her mother nearly burst into tears. Her mum kept saying she’d “do anything for her girl,” yet in the end, there was no dowry, no help—just us.
We kept supporting them however we could. Who else would? I cooked, cleaned, brought groceries, even helped with household things. Emma would call to ask where something was—she didn’t buy it, didn’t arrange it. I did it all willingly. I never asked for anything in return. Just a simple “thank you.”
But gratitude, it seems, belonged to another life. Instead—irritation, resentment, coldness. And yesterday, it hit me: I’m no longer welcome in that home.
The day started as usual. I had to be at work by eight, so at seven, I stood at Charlie’s door with slow-cooked beef, fresh and fragrant. New curtains, too—to match the china and tablecloths I’d bought them last week. A little surprise. I pulled out my key… but it didn’t work. The locks were changed. Without a word.
I stood there, stunned. Like an intruder. I knocked. Charlie answered. I smiled, held out the container, started explaining about the curtains—how they’d fit. But he wasn’t listening. Arms crossed, face like stone.
“Mum,” he said flatly, “are you serious? It’s seven in the morning. You barge in at the crack of dawn and expect thanks? That’s not normal. If this happens again, we’ll move. And we won’t tell you where.”
He shut the door. Right in my face. Left the food, the curtains—everything. I stood there, numb. Had to wake the neighbour and ask her to pass it on.
I went to work with a lump in my throat, shaking. How could he? I gave up my youth for him. Never lived for myself. Helped however I could. Thought I was needed. Instead, I’m just a nuisance. Unwanted.
People say parents owe their children nothing. But we did everything. And more. And now? “Mum, back off.” Not a thank you. Just a threat: “We’ll move.”
Charlie was never like this. It’s her—Emma. She changed the locks. She’s convinced him a mother’s love is control, that care is intrusion. Is that fair?
Sometimes I wonder—is it my fault? Should I have stepped back? But how? How do you turn away when you know you can make their lives easier? Isn’t that what parents are for?
Now I sit here, wondering: how do I go on? My son—the boy I lived for—has turned away. And all because of a woman who decided I’m in the way.
The worst part? He doesn’t even realise how deeply he’s hurt me.
