Sometimes it feels like I’m losing my son—not in body, but in spirit. He’s fading before my eyes, his spark gone, his will and character worn away. And all because of the woman he married. The one who once seemed so steady, so worthy, but turned out to be… well, I can’t even find the words without choking up.
Tom married a few years ago, already in his thirties, with a stable career and a promotion under his belt. He’d just become the director of a logistics firm here in Manchester. He had a son from his first marriage, and I’d always assumed he’d choose his second wife carefully. But things with Laura moved quickly. She was sharp—ran a chain of boutiques, always busy, no-nonsense, not one for sentiment. I kept my thoughts to myself. As long as he was happy.
Before the wedding, Laura lived with us for a while. I’ll admit, I admired her at first—strong-willed, never idle, the house spotless. Tom was glowing, insisting he’d found *the one*. The wedding was simple but heartfelt—gifts, speeches, flowers. Then they moved into their own flat.
A few months in, Laura announced it was “time for a baby.” No point waiting—her clock was ticking. When she didn’t conceive right away, she jetted off to Ibiza with a friend, then returned with the news: *I’m pregnant.* Tom was over the moon. I felt a twist of unease but bit my tongue.
The pregnancy was rough—Laura was irritable, snapping one minute, sobbing the next. Tom called me, baffled. *Is this normal?* I blamed the hormones. Surely things would settle after the birth.
They didn’t. At the hospital, Tom brought her an extravagant bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it into the bin by the entrance. I glanced at my son—his shoulders slumped, confusion written all over him. I didn’t know whether to hug him or scream.
Then came the disappearing acts. She’d leave “on business,” dumping the baby on me. I’d rock up to watch my grandson, stepping into a house run with military precision—feeding schedules, nap charts, walk times. Yet from Laura? Not a smile, not a *thanks*. Just tight-lipped tension, like I was intruding.
Two years passed. Tom was a ghost of himself—exhausted, hollow. I tried talking to him. *Just tired*, he’d mutter. Then one night, he cracked. *I don’t know how to live with her. Nothing’s ever good enough.* He’d ask what was wrong, how to fix it. She’d snap back—threatening to take their son and vanish.
Then came the ultimatums. No more business trips. *I’m not your babysitter.* Tom quit his director role, switched to freelance, took a pay cut. Laura’s response? *Now you’re nobody. A burden.* The irony—he did it all *for* her.
Last month, he got the flu—fever sky-high. I begged her to let me take the baby. She refused. I went anyway and nearly collapsed at the sight: Tom, sweat-drenched, scrubbing floors while she lounged on the sofa, phone in hand. *What, he should just lie about? I worked through fever too.*
I sat at their kitchen table and cried. My son—kind-hearted, sharp as a tack—had been ground down to a shadow. She’s crushing him, siphon by siphon. And he takes it. I don’t know what to do. Talk to him? He won’t hear it. Talk to her? Pointless. She’s a brick wall. I fear one day he’ll just… break. And then I’ll lose him for good.
