Helen stood by her former daughter-in-law, but her son called it betrayal.
This is one mother’s story—a woman who couldn’t turn away when someone needed help.
*”Helen, why do you even bother?”* her friends whispered. *”She’s nothing to you now. He’ll marry again and forget you ever existed. And once your grandson grows up, he won’t remember either. You’re just wasting your nerves and pennies.”*
But I feel ashamed. Ashamed I raised my son without a father’s guidance, and now I’m paying for what I failed to give him—a conscience.
My Daniel married seven years ago. His choice, Emily, had moved to our town of York to study. They moved in together almost straight away, rented a flat, and built their little life. Emily and I never quite clicked. We didn’t argue outright, but there was always a wall between us.
I kept my distance. I worked from dawn till dusk, not ready to retire yet. I visited when invited, dropped by occasionally.
A couple of years in, they had a son—Oliver. They still lived in that rented flat, dreaming of a mortgage. But as soon as Ollie started nursery, the rows began.
Daniel swore to me there was no other woman. But a mother knows. Sure enough, the moment Ollie settled into nursery, my son filed for divorce.
*”Mum, don’t make a drama out of it. I’ll pay child support. Besides, Millie’s pregnant now—that’s my family. Emily will sort herself out. She can go back to her parents in the countryside—cleaner air there,”* he muttered, avoiding my eyes.
We fell out badly. Emily refused to leave—there were no jobs or nurseries in her village near Lincoln, and her parents weren’t exactly waiting with open arms. She started looking for a room to rent, unable to afford the flat alone.
I kept in touch. When my niece passed down her son’s old clothes, I offered to deliver them—needed to see if they fit. I arrived at lunchtime, just as Emily was feeding Oliver. She offered me a bowl of stew.
*”Don’t like stew without meat…”* the boy mumbled. *”Mum didn’t buy any because the rent’s due.”*
Emily turned to the window. And cried silently.
I couldn’t take it. Asked if I could take Ollie for a walk. Bought groceries, sweets. Walking home, I remembered eating watery broth at my gran’s in the post-war years. Back then, war was the excuse. Now? Just a callous father.
From that day, I sent Emily money. Daniel didn’t know—until Ollie let it slip.
*”How’s that fair? Can’t buy your granddaughter a bike, but you’re paying their rent!”* he exploded.
*”Would you rather your son slept at the station?”* I shot back. *”You walked away. She’s fighting alone. I’m ashamed of you. So I’m making it right—trying to soften what you’ve hardened.”*
*”So you chose her over your own son?”*
Maybe so. But that grandson isn’t *hers*—he’s *ours*. And as long as I’m alive, he won’t eat empty stew. Even if my son never understands.
