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 regrets. I was left alone with a child, no support, an empty wallet, and a bitter heart. A few months later, I took a job abroad, hoping to get back on my feet and give my son a better future.
I left Danny in my mum’s care. She was the one who took him to nursery, helped him learn nursery rhymes, ironed his uniform when he started school. His gran was the one who comforted him at night when he cried from loneliness. And me? I sent parcels, money, letters. But visits? Rarely. There was always something in the way—work, life, new relationships.
Yes, I fell in love. In another town, another country, with another man. And at some point, I realised my son didn’t fit into that new life. I tried to ignore it, but it was true. He became something distant, painful—a heavy reminder of what I’d run from.
When Daniel finished school, he went to university. Graduated with top marks. Landed a job at an international firm and started working in Germany. Flew all over, built his career. I was proud, even if from a distance.
Once, in France, he met a girl named Lillian—turned out she was from England too. They fell hard. Soon, they moved in together. When Lillian got pregnant, they decided to move back to London, got married, bought a flat. Their son, Oliver, was born. Daniel dreamed of a big family, but Lillian wasn’t on the same page—she wanted more time for herself.
He travelled for work even more, tried to make up for it with gifts, trips, money. Pushed himself to the limit, convinced he was doing right by them.
Then one day, he came home early—nearly two months sooner than expected. Lillian wasn’t there. Oliver was playing with the nanny. The girl hesitated, said his mum had gone to the gym. Something in her voice gave it away. As Daniel unpacked presents from his suitcase, Oliver ran up, grabbed a toy, and blurted out—
“I already have this one! Uncle Ethan gave me the same one!”
That was it. Lillian admitted it—she’d been seeing Ethan for over a year and wasn’t hiding it anymore. “You’re always flying off somewhere. I got tired of being alone,” she said.
The next day, Daniel filed for divorce. “I won’t stop you seeing Oliver. But the flat’s mine. Figure out somewhere else to live with your fling.” His voice was calm, firm. She begged him to let them stay—said their son wouldn’t have a place to sleep. He didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, she stood at his door with Oliver.
“Ethan and I are moving away. Let Oliver stay with you for now. I’ll come back for him once we’re settled.”
“He doesn’t want my son around, does he?”
She stayed silent.
That’s how their new life together started. Daniel quit his job, started his own business so he could be there for his son. At first, Oliver asked about his mum—then stopped. Lillian never called, never visited. Daniel never married again—betrayal burned a scar into him for good.
Years passed. Oliver grew up. One grey evening, a woman stood at their door. Older now, her eyes full of regret.
“I barely found where you lived. I want to see my son. I know I did everything wrong…”
Oliver silently looked at his dad. He nodded.
“Yeah. That’s your mum.”
The boy lifted his head and said softly,
“I don’t have a mother.”
He turned and walked inside. I stood there, frozen. Looked into her eyes and saw nothing left to say.
“You heard him. Don’t come back.”
I shut the door behind me and went to my son. That’s where my real family was—just us, behind that door.
