I asked my former daughter-in-law to move in with me—now all I have is my grandson and my daughter. My son no longer exists.
I raised my son alone. His father left us when Alfie was barely three—said he was tired of the grind, the responsibility, the family. As if I, a girl three years younger, was supposed to know better what adult life meant. He walked out, slamming the door, and I was left with a child, debts, sleepless nights, and two jobs. After that, I stopped expecting help from anyone.
I loved my son beyond measure. Alfie grew up clever, kind, warmhearted. I poured everything into him—care, strength, health, my youth. When he fell in love with Sophie, he was just 23, she was 21. First love, shining eyes, bright laughter. He worked odd jobs, saved for a ring, proposed to her himself. I never doubted—he was ready to be a husband. Sophie seemed fragile, quiet, but I sensed she’d be a good wife, and I welcomed her as my own.
They had a modest wedding, rented a flat, and I sent them off with a light heart—let them build their happiness. A year later, little Freddie was born—my grandson, my pride. A sturdy lad, 9.5 lbs. I adored him from the first moment. Alfie found a better job, everything seemed smooth sailing. And then… then came the bolt from the blue—the divorce.
No shouting, no scenes, no explanations. Just Alfie saying, *I’m leaving.* There was someone else. A colleague from work, already expecting his child. It was betrayal. I couldn’t find words to excuse him. Sophie and Freddie moved back with her parents, while my son went to live with his new woman. He tried to convince me it happens, that love fades. But I saw the truth—he was walking his father’s path.
He invited me over, wanted me to meet his new choice. I refused. No. That wasn’t my family. My family was Sophie and Freddie. I kept visiting my former daughter-in-law. We grew close, like mother and daughter. I brought groceries, helped with Freddie, walked him in the park. I saw how hard it was for Sophie—a cramped room, grumbling parents, endless exhaustion. One day, I said, *Come live with me.*
I had a three-bedroom house all to myself. There was room enough. I was still working, missing warmth, missing voices in the house. Sophie hesitated at first, but by evening, she was at my doorstep. Bags in hand. Eyes swollen from crying.
*Thank you*, she whispered, *I don’t even know how to repay you…*
Since then, we’ve lived as three. Sophie keeps the home, I work, and in the evenings, we play with Freddie, watch telly, swap recipes, laugh. I feel needed again. No pretending everything’s fine. We’re a proper family now.
When Alfie found out Sophie and Freddie were living with me, he came. I was at work. Sophie answered. He started saying he had a right to see his son, that Granny shouldn’t interfere. When I got home and saw him at the door, something snapped. I couldn’t hold back.
*You betrayed your wife. You abandoned your child. You’re following your father’s footsteps—and you dare talk about rights?*
He made excuses, said he had another child now, money was tight. I didn’t listen. I said,
*You’re no son of mine. And this house isn’t yours. Leave.*
He slammed the door and walked away. I closed it behind him for good. Now I have only Freddie and Sophie—my daughter, not by blood, but by heart. I’ve thought about the will. This house should go to my grandson. Sophie’s still young, she’ll find love again, and I’ll help her however I can. My son chose his path. Mine is beside those who didn’t betray me.
