I came to my son’s doorstep with homemade food at seven in the morning, and he shut the door in my face. I’m certain—this is all his wife’s doing.
Mine and my husband’s life had always revolved around one person—our son. We had him late in life, and from the very first day, we made a vow: he would never feel the way I had as a child. I grew up without a father, with a mother who was cold, distant, as if she were a stranger. I never knew a mother’s warmth, so I swore my child would never feel the pain I had endured.
Oliver became our reason for living. We worked without holidays, without rest, without a thought for ourselves—all for him. When he was in school, we took out a mortgage to buy him a flat in the neighbouring building. It was hard, ten years of repayments. But we managed. And by the time he married, he already had a home of his own.
I’ll never forget the moment at the wedding reception when I proudly handed him the keys to that flat. His bride, Gemma, and her mother nearly burst into tears. Her mother kept saying she’d “do anything for her girl,” yet in the end, there was no dowry, no help—everything came from us.
We kept supporting them however we could. Who else would help a young couple but their parents? I gladly cooked for them, cleaned, brought groceries, even helped buy household things now and then. Gemma would call and ask where certain kitchen items were—because she hadn’t bought them, hadn’t put them away. I did everything with love, expecting nothing in return. Just a simple “thank you.”
But gratitude, it seems, belonged to another life. In its place came irritation, resentment, coldness. And yesterday, I understood—I was no longer welcome in that house.
The day began as usual. I had work at eight, so by seven, I was at my son’s door. I’d brought them a pot of stew, fresh and fragrant. And new curtains, to match the dinnerware and tablecloths I’d bought them the week before. I wanted to surprise them. I opened my bag, took out my key—but it wouldn’t turn. The locks had been changed. Without a word.
I stood there, lost, like a stranger. I knocked. Oliver opened the door. Smiling, I held out the pot, started explaining about the curtains, how well they’d suit… but he wasn’t listening. Arms crossed. Face like stone.
“Mum,” he said flatly, “are you serious? It’s seven in the bloody morning. You barge in at the crack of dawn, and I’m supposed to thank you? That’s not normal. If this happens again—we’ll move. And we won’t tell you where.”
Then he slammed the door in my face. Didn’t take the food. Didn’t take the curtains. I stood there, stunned. In the end, I had to wake a neighbour and ask her to pass the food along.
I rode to work with a lump in my throat, shaking. How could he do this? I had given up my youth for him. Never lived for myself. Helped wherever I could. Involved myself in their lives, thinking it was love, thinking they still needed me. But in truth—I was just in the way. Unwanted.
These days, people say parents don’t owe their children anything. But my husband and I—we weren’t like that. We gave everything. And more. And now? “Mum, don’t interfere.” Not even a thank you. Just a threat: “We’ll move.”
Oliver was never like this before. It’s her—Gemma. She changed the locks. She’s the one who convinced him his own mother is a problem. That love and care are just control and meddling. But is that fair?
Sometimes I wonder—maybe it *is* my fault. Maybe I should have stepped back. But how could I not help? How could I turn away when I knew I could make their lives easier? Isn’t that what parents are for?
Now, here I sit, wondering—how do I go on? My son, my Oliver, the boy I lived for, has turned away. And all because of a woman who decided I was in the way.
The worst part? He didn’t even realise how much he hurt me.
