Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my son—not physically, but in every other way. He’s fading right before my eyes, his spirit dimming, his will dissolving. And all because of the woman he married. The one who once seemed so dependable, so right for him, but turned out to be… well, I can’t even find the words without my throat tightening.
Tom married a few years ago. He was in his thirties, settled in his career, climbing the corporate ladder. He’d just been promoted to director of a logistics firm in Manchester. He already had a son from his first marriage, and I thought he’d be extra cautious choosing a second wife. But with Laura, things moved fast. She was ambitious—ran a chain of boutiques, always busy, sharp as a tack, not one for soft sentiments. I kept my opinions to myself. As long as he was happy.
Before the wedding, Laura lived with us for a few months. I thought, *She’s got backbone, doesn’t chatter nonsense, keeps the place spotless.* Tom was glowing, saying he’d finally found *the one*. The wedding was small but heartfelt. Gifts, speeches, flowers. Then they moved into their own flat.
A couple of months later, Laura announced, “It’s time I had a baby.” No spring chicken, she said—couldn’t afford to wait. When she didn’t conceive right away, she jetted off to the Maldives with a friend. Came back with the news: “I’m pregnant.” Tom was overjoyed. Me? Uneasy. But I kept my mouth shut.
The pregnancy was rough. Laura was irritable, snapping one minute, sobbing the next. Tom called me, asking if this was normal. I said, “Hormones, love. They do strange things.” I assumed things would settle after the baby arrived.
They didn’t. They got worse. Leaving the hospital, Tom presented her with a lavish bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it in the bin right outside the doors. I glanced at my son—he stood there, shoulders slumped, utterly defeated. I didn’t know whether to hug him or scream.
Soon, she started leaving the baby with me while she ran errands. I’d come over, mind the little one. Laura’s home was spotless, every routine down to the minute—feeding, naps, walks. But from her? No smile, no thanks. Just this pinched, simmering coldness. I felt like an intruder, even as I helped.
A year passed. Then another. No change. Tom became a shadow of himself—drained, hollow. I tried talking to him. He blamed exhaustion at first, then admitted, “I don’t know how to live with her. Nothing’s ever good enough.” He’d ask what was wrong, how he could fix it. She’d just shriek, threaten to take the child and leave.
Then came the real nightmare. Laura forbade him from business trips. “I’m not a babysitter. He’s your son—look after him.” Tom quit his director’s role, switched to remote work, took on side gigs with flexible hours. His salary halved. Laura sneered that he was “a nobody” now, “living off her.” All this, when he’d done it *for her*.
Last month, he came down with the flu. Fever raging. I begged to take the baby so he could rest. Laura refused. I went over anyway. Walked in—and nearly collapsed. There was Tom, sweat dripping, face flushed, scrubbing floors while she lounged on the sofa, phone in hand. “What’s he meant to do, lie about? *I’ve* worked through fevers,” she snapped.
I sat at the kitchen table and cried. My son—a man with a heart of gold, sharp as a whip, kind to his bones—had been reduced to a ghost. She’s grinding him down, stripping him bare. And he just takes it.
I don’t know what to do. Talking to him? He won’t hear it. Talking to her? Pointless. She’s a block of ice. I’m terrified one day he’ll just… break. And I’ll lose him for good.
