I know I was a terrible mother. I came to see my son—”I don’t have a mother,” he replied and walked away.
When Daniel turned three, our family fell apart—my husband packed his things and left. No explanations, no apologies. I was left alone with a child, no support, an empty bank account, and a bitter ache in my heart. A few months later, I took a job abroad, hoping to rebuild my life and give my son a proper future.
I left Daniel with my mum. She was the one who took him to nursery, helped him learn his first poems, ironed his school uniform when he started Year One. She was the one who comforted him at night when he cried from loneliness. And me? I sent parcels, money, letters. But I rarely visited. There was always something in the way: work, life, a new relationship.
Yes, I fell in love. In another city, another country, with another man. And at some point, I realised my son didn’t fit into that new life. I tried to deny it, but it was true. He became something distant, heavy—a painful reminder of what I’d run away from.
When Daniel finished school, he went to university. Graduated with top marks. Landed a job at an international firm in Germany. Travelled the world, climbed the career ladder. I was proud of him, even from afar.
Then, in France, he met a girl named Liana. Turned out she was British too. They fell hard for each other, moved in together, and when Liana got pregnant, they decided to settle down in London. Got married, bought a flat. Their son, Oliver, was born. Daniel dreamed of a big family, but Liana wasn’t on the same page—she still wanted to live for herself.
He took more business trips, tried to make up for it with money, gifts, holidays. Worked himself to the bone, convinced he was doing the right thing.
Once, he came home early—his trip had been delayed by nearly two months. Liana wasn’t there. Oliver was playing with the nanny. The girl hesitated, said his mum was at the gym. Something in her voice gave it away. As Daniel unpacked gifts from his suitcase, Oliver ran up excitedly, grabbed a toy, and shouted:
“I already have one like this! Uncle Adam gave me the same one!”
That was it. Liana admitted it—she’d been seeing Adam for over a year, and she wasn’t hiding it anymore. “You’re always off somewhere—I just got tired of being alone,” she said.
The next day, Daniel filed for divorce. “I won’t stop you seeing our son. But the flat’s mine. Figure out where to live with your boyfriend,” he said calmly but firmly. She begged him to let her stay—said Oliver wouldn’t have a place to sleep. He didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, she stood at his door with Oliver.
“Adam and I are leaving. Oliver can stay with you for now. Once we’re settled, I’ll take him back.”
“Your boyfriend doesn’t want him around, does he?”
She didn’t answer.
And so their new life together began. Daniel quit his job, started his own business so he could be there for his son. Oliver asked about his mum at first, but eventually stopped. Liana never called, never visited. Daniel didn’t trust love anymore—betrayal had left a permanent scar.
Years passed. Oliver grew up. One grey evening, a woman stood outside their door. Older, guilt written all over her face.
“I barely found where you lived. I want to see my son. I know I did everything wrong…”
Oliver looked at his father silently. Daniel nodded.
“Yeah. This is your mum.”
The boy lifted his eyes and said softly:
“I don’t have a mother.”
He turned and walked inside. I stood there, numb. Looked into her eyes and saw nothing left to say.
“You heard him. Don’t come back.”
I shut the door and went to my son. That—on the other side—was my real family.
