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 Oliver turned three, our family world shattered—my husband packed his things and left. Without explanation, without remorse. I was left alone with a child, no support, an empty purse, and bitterness weighing heavily in my heart. After a few months, I accepted a job offer abroad, hoping to rebuild my life and give my son a better future.
I left Ollie in my mother’s care. She was the one who took him to nursery, taught him rhymes, ironed his uniform when he started school. Nana soothed him at night when he cried from loneliness. And me? I sent parcels, money, letters. But visits? Rare. Something always stood in the way—work, chores, new relationships.
Yes, I fell in love. In another city, another country, another man. And at some point, I realised my son didn’t fit into that new life. I tried to ignore it, but the truth was plain. He became something distant, burdensome—a heavy reminder of what I’d run from.
When Oliver finished school, he went to university. Graduated with top marks. Landed a job at an international firm and started working in Germany. Flew across continents, climbed the ladder. I was proud, though from afar.
Once, in Paris, he met a girl named Emily. Turned out she was British too. Love ignited. Soon they moved in together. When Emily got pregnant, they decided to return to London, married, bought a flat. Their son, Jacob, was born. Oliver longed for a big family, but his wife had other plans—she wanted more time for herself.
He travelled often, trying to make up for it with money, gifts, holidays. Worked himself ragged, convinced it was the right thing.
One day he returned early from a trip—two months sooner than planned. Emily wasn’t home. Jacob played with the nanny. The girl stammered, said the missus had gone to the gym. Something in her voice rang false. As Oliver unpacked presents, Jacob ran over, grabbed a toy, and chirped:
“I already have one! Uncle Liam gave me the same!”
The truth crashed down. Emily confessed: she’d been seeing Liam for over a year, and she wouldn’t hide it. “You’re always flying somewhere. I got tired of being alone,” she said.
The next day, Oliver filed for divorce. “I won’t stop you seeing Jacob. But the flat’s mine. Find somewhere else to live with your lover.” His voice was calm, unyielding. She begged—where would the child sleep? He didn’t budge.
Two weeks later, she stood at the door with their son:
“Liam and I are leaving. Jacob should stay with you for now. I’ll take him once we’re settled.”
“He doesn’t want my boy around, does he?”
Silence.
So began their new life, just the two of them. Oliver quit his job, started his own business to stay close. At first, Jacob asked about his mum. Then he stopped. Emily never called, never visited. Oliver swore off marriage—the betrayal had left a permanent scar.
Years passed. Jacob grew up. One grey evening, a woman approached their door. Aged, eyes full of guilt.
“I barely tracked you down. I want to see my son. I know I did everything wrong—”
Jacob glanced at his father. Oliver nodded.
“Yes. That’s your mother.”
The boy looked up, voice quiet but firm.
“I don’t have a mother.”
He turned and walked inside. I stood frozen, staring into her hollow gaze. Words were pointless now.
“You heard him. Don’t come back.”
I shut the door and went to my son. Beyond that door was my real family.
