**Diary Entry**
I asked my former daughter-in-law to come live with me—now I have only my grandson and my daughter. My son no longer exists to me.
I raised my son alone. His father left when Jack was barely three, saying he was tired of responsibility, of family life, as if I, three years younger, was supposed to know better how to be an adult. He walked out without a second glance, leaving me with a child, debts, sleepless nights, and two jobs. After that, I stopped expecting help from anyone.
I loved my son endlessly. Jack grew up kind, clever, warm-hearted. I poured everything into him—care, my strength, my youth. When he fell in love with Emily, he was just 23, she was 21. First love, bright eyes, laughter filling every room. He saved up for a ring, working extra shifts, and proposed himself. I never doubted he was ready to be a husband. Emily seemed shy, gentle, but I sensed she’d be a good wife, and I welcomed her as my own.
They had a small wedding, rented a flat, and I let them go with a light heart—let them build their own happiness. A year later, little Oliver was born—my grandson, my pride. A strong boy, nearly 9 pounds. I loved him the moment I saw him. Jack found a better job, life seemed smooth. And then… then came the bolt from the blue—the divorce.
No shouting, no scenes, no explanations. Just Jack saying, *”I’m leaving.”* There was someone else. A colleague at work, already expecting his child. It was betrayal. I couldn’t find words to defend him. Emily went back to her parents with Oliver, and my son moved in with his new woman. He tried to convince me love just fades sometimes. But I knew—he was walking the same path as his father.
He invited me over, wanted me to meet *her*. I refused. No. That wasn’t my family. My family was Emily and Oliver. I kept visiting my former daughter-in-law. We grew close, like mother and daughter. I helped—did the shopping, took Oliver for walks. I saw how hard it was for her—a cramped room, grumbling parents, endless exhaustion. One day, I said, *”Come live with me.”*
I had a three-bedroom house. There was more than enough space. I still worked, but I missed warmth, laughter, life in the house. At first, Emily hesitated, but by evening, she was at my door. Suitcases in hand, eyes red from crying.
*”Thank you,”* she whispered. *”I don’t even know how to repay you—”*
Now we live together, the three of us. Emily keeps the house, I work, and in the evenings, we play with Oliver, watch films, swap recipes, laugh. I feel needed again. No more pretending everything’s fine. We’re a family.
Jack found out Emily and Oliver were staying with me and came over. I was at work. Emily answered the door. He said he wanted to see his son, that I shouldn’t interfere. When I got home and saw him on the doorstep, something in me snapped. I couldn’t hold back.
*”You betrayed your wife. You abandoned your child. You’re just like your father—and you dare talk about rights?”*
He made excuses—another child on the way, money troubles. I didn’t listen.
*”You’re no son of mine. This house isn’t yours. Leave.”*
He slammed the door, and I locked it behind him. For good. Now, there’s only Oliver and Emily—my daughter, not by blood but by heart. I’m thinking of making a will. This house should go to my grandson. Emily’s still young—she’ll find love again, and I’ll help however I can. My son chose his path. Mine leads forward—with those who stayed.
