I asked my former daughter-in-law to move in with me—now it’s just me, my grandson, and my daughter. My son might as well not exist anymore.
I raised him on my own. His dad left when Mike was barely three—said he was tired of the daily grind, the responsibility, the family. Like I, a woman three years younger, was supposed to know better what adulthood meant. He walked out, slamming the door, leaving me alone with a child, debts, sleepless nights, and two jobs. After that, I stopped expecting help from anyone.
I loved my son more than anything. Mike grew up clever, kind, warm-hearted. I poured everything into him—care, energy, my health, my youth. When he fell for Sophie, he was only 23, she was 21. First love, starry eyes, laughter ringing through the house. He took odd jobs, saved up for a ring, proposed properly. I never doubted—he was ready to be a husband. Sophie seemed fragile, quiet, but I sensed she’d be a good wife, and I welcomed her like my own.
They had a small wedding, rented a flat, and I let them go with peace in my heart—let them build their happiness. A year later, little Oliver arrived—my grandson, my pride. A strapping lad, 9.5 pounds. I adored him from the first moment. Mike landed a better job, everything seemed perfect. Then… then came the thunderbolt—the divorce.
No shouting, no drama, no explanations. Just Mike saying, “I’m leaving.” There was someone else. A colleague from work, already expecting his child. It was a betrayal. I couldn’t find words to defend him. Sophie and Ollie went back to her parents, and my son moved in with his new woman. He tried to convince me love just fades, that it happens. But I saw it—he’d walked the same path as his father.
He invited me over, wanted me to meet his new partner. I refused. No. That’s not my family. My family is Sophie and Ollie. I kept visiting my former daughter-in-law. We grew close, like mother and daughter. I’d drop by, help out, take my grandson to the park, bring groceries. I saw how hard it was for Sophie—a tiny bedroom, grumbling parents, constant exhaustion. One day, I said, “Come live with me.”
I had a three-bed house all to myself. Plenty of room. I was still working, but the place felt too quiet, too empty. At first, Sophie hesitated, but by evening, she was on my doorstep. Luggage in hand, eyes red from crying.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “I don’t even know how to repay you…”
Now, the three of us live together. Sophie keeps the house running, I work, and in the evenings, we’re curled up with Ollie, watching films, swapping recipes, just laughing. I feel needed again. No more pretending everything’s fine. We’re a proper family.
Mike found out Sophie and Ollie were living with me and showed up. I was at work. Sophie answered. He started saying he had rights to see his son, that I shouldn’t interfere. When I got home and saw him at the door, something snapped. I couldn’t hold back.
“You betrayed your wife. You abandoned your child. You became just like your father—and you dare talk about rights?” He tried to defend himself, said he had another kid now, money was tight. I didn’t listen. I told him,
“You’re not my son anymore. And this isn’t your home. Leave.”
He slammed the door and walked away. I locked it behind him for good. Now it’s just me, Ollie, and Sophie—my daughter, not by blood but by heart. I’ve been thinking about the will. This house should go to my grandson. Sophie’s still young, she’ll find love again, and I’ll help however I can. My son chose his path. I’ll walk mine—with the ones who didn’t walk away.
