Long ago, when I turned sixty, life had settled into the quiet rhythm of retirement—aching knees, weariness from years of labour, the familiar burden carried by women who’d shouldered it all alone, without the steadying hand of a husband. In my prime, I’d been a hairdresser, a trade that demanded both stamina and cheer, day after day on my feet. Now, with health waning, I worked only occasionally, mostly for old clients who still trusted my hands.
My husband had vanished from my life long before. We parted ways soon after our son, Thomas, was born—the man proved worthless, content to loaf about the flat, smoking and drinking with his mates. Though he claimed work was beneath him, he’d no trouble living off my wages. Leaving him was a relief, like a weight lifted. From then on, I raised Thomas single-handedly, doing my best to be both mother and father. Mistakes? Plenty. There was little time for tender talks when survival meant grinding work. When he left for his service, I dared hope life might treat him kinder.
Then he returned, bringing home a girl—gentle, warm, always smiling. Emily. They married within months, and I welcomed her gladly, even letting them stay with me at first. We grew close, like mother and daughter. No quarrels, just shared suppers, evenings over films, debates about recipes and books. With her, I felt at ease.
They moved out eventually, had a son—my first grandson. Emily refused to idle, found work while Thomas built a decent career, then started his own business. I was proud. Life seemed settled.
When I needed surgery, Emily didn’t hesitate—she booked me into a private clinic and covered every penny. Not a word of resentment. Just kindness. That, I’d never forget.
Then, after nine years, the marriage crumbled. Thomas packed his bags and left, cold as ice. He’d fallen for another, he said. Emily fought to save it, but he was unmoved. Later, she confessed he’d been unfaithful for two years. I was stunned.
The first time he brought his new woman to my door, I recoiled. Vulgar, brash, manners like a fishwife—cursing between words, lips swollen like rubber, eyes empty. I tried reasoning with him: “Is this truly the woman you want beside you?” He shrugged. No wedding plans—his new love “couldn’t stand fuss.”
I held my tongue. At his age, his choices were his own. But something in me fractured. Emily and I kept our bond. She visited with my grandson, brought soup and fruit as before. With Thomas, the ties frayed to nothing, as if he’d erased himself from my life.
Come Yuletide or Easter, I no longer waited for him. I knew he’d bring *her*. And I wouldn’t have that woman in my home—her shrieking voice, her coarse tongue around my table, my grandson hearing such talk. So Emily came instead. We laid the feast, drank tea, laughed over old memories. Those were good days.
Thomas phoned once, asking to visit. I refused. “Not with her,” I said. “Come alone, or not at all.” He slammed the receiver down. Silence since.
But I’ve no regrets. Life’s taught me who stood by me when shadows fell. And I won’t betray the one who never betrayed me.
So I spend my holidays with my former daughter-in-law. Because she’s become dearer than my own son. And no, I shan’t apologise for it.
