I raised my son alone, hoping he would be my support in life, yet he became a burden along with his wife.
I devoted my life to my boy, bringing him up by myself, sacrificing everything so he might grow into a good man. But instead of gratitude or care, all I received was indifference, laziness, and betrayal. The son I loved so dearly and his wife have become nothing but a weight upon my shoulders, and now I face a bitter choice—should I cast them out or endure their presence, losing what little strength and hope I have left?
My name is Margaret Whitaker, and I live in a quiet town in the Yorkshire Dales. My son, Timothy, was once heaven’s blessing—polite, kind, and obedient, a child who gave me no trouble. As a single mother, I worked two jobs to provide for him, dreaming that one day he would stand by me in my twilight years, just as I had stood by him in his youth. But those dreams crumbled like dry leaves when he grew older.
After school, Timothy refused further education. “Mum, university isn’t for me,” he said, and enlisted in the army. I hoped service might instill responsibility in him, that he’d come home eager to build a future. Yet when he returned, all I felt was disappointment. Study? “Don’t fancy it.” Work? “Only if it suits me.” His expectations were impossible—high wages, easy labour, no real effort. He took a job at a warehouse but left within a month, declaring it “not his sort of thing.” For half a year, he idled at home, doing nothing. I fed him, clothed him, paid for everything from my meagre pension, though I scarcely had enough for myself.
Then Timothy brought home a wife—Violet, an eighteen-year-old girl who neither worked nor intended to. Her arrogance stunned me; she carried herself as if the world owed her favour, though she had neither education nor ambition. Naturally, they moved in with me. My small cottage, already cramped, became a battleground. I tried reasoning with them—pointing out the mess, their idleness—but every word of mine was met with anger. “Mum, we’ll sort ourselves out!” Timothy would snap, while Violet rolled her eyes and nodded along. Their words mocked my efforts, as if my care meant nothing.
One day, I could bear no more. “Then sort yourselves out elsewhere!” I cried, my voice shaking with grief and rage. “I cannot feed you both on my pension! I have barely enough for myself, yet you cling to me like leeches!” I gave them an ultimatum—by month’s end, they were to pack their things and leave. Timothy looked wounded, Violet scoffed, but neither argued. Still, deep down, I fear—what if they refuse to go? How can I turn my own son away?
I am torn between love for Timothy and the ache of justice. He is my flesh, my boy, for whom I denied myself everything. Yet now, he thinks nothing of me. His indifference, his laziness, his choice of an equally thoughtless wife—it’s all a slap in the face. Violet only worsens matters—she doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, lives at my expense as though I owe her shelter. I watch my life drain away, stretched thin by their weight, and it breaks my heart.
What should I do? To cast them out means losing my son forever. To let them stay means losing myself entirely. Each day, I search Timothy’s face for the boy I once loved, but all I see now is a stranger who has forgotten what gratitude means. My hope for his kindness has withered, and before me yawns an abyss—do I even have the strength to step forward?
