In my old age, my son has stopped speaking to me. He’s gone back to the woman who once broke his heart.
Every mother wants only the best for her child—someone to love them, work that brings them joy, a life without pain or disappointment. But so often, children don’t listen. They make the same mistakes, step on the same rakes. That’s what happened with my eldest son. After his divorce, he seemed to understand. And then—another step into the same abyss.
When he first came back from university, bright-eyed and young, he met a girl named Emily. Our small town in Yorkshire quickly whispered to me—she had a bad reputation, too many lads, endless rows with her parents. But I thought, I’ll give her a chance. I’m his mother, after all. Meeting Emily would help me understand who had captured my boy’s heart.
I scrubbed the flat till it shone, made a roast dinner, set the table. And then she arrived… chewing gum, with a bold stare and a defiant manner. No “hello,” no respect in her words. She left me with the impression of someone who couldn’t care less about others.
People asked me, “Margaret, can’t you see the mess he’s diving into?” Of course I could. But Thomas was blind back then. Within a month, they had submitted their notice at the registry office. Emily’s parents paid for everything. I stayed quiet. I hoped love might soften her.
But no miracle came. Emily didn’t cook, didn’t clean, ordered takeaway every night, and when my son came home exhausted—she’d throw tantrums. He’d rush to me, weep over tea, then go back to her. Until they split. Quietly. No scenes. Just six months later.
I watched him suffer. Lock himself away. Avoid conversations. And like any mother, I tried to help. I introduced him to my old friend’s daughter—clever, kind, steady. Not a stunner, but warm-hearted. They dated, laughed, made plans. I already imagined babysitting their children. But then…
Emily came back.
First, calls. Then visits. Then Thomas started disappearing again. One day, he went to that girl—the one who’d helped him stand again—and said they were “too different.” A week later, he told me he was remarrying. Emily.
I couldn’t believe it. I asked, “Why? You’ve been through this! You know how it ends.” He stayed silent. Then, mustering his courage, he called and said, “Mum, don’t come to the wedding. I know how you feel about her. I won’t ruin the day for either of us.”
He refused me. Me—his mother, who stayed up nights, who held his hand when he couldn’t get out of bed. For whom? For the woman who shattered him once. For the woman even her own parents can’t excuse.
I wouldn’t have gone anyway. I know that. But hearing it—it was like a slap.
Now I often think: I once had two sons. Now, only one. Though both are alive. One just erased me from his life. And for what? For being honest? For trying to spare him pain?
They say you should never turn your back on your children. No matter what. But what do you do when it’s the child who shuts you out, ignores you, pushes you away? When your words, your care, become a burden he shakes off like useless weight?
I don’t curse him. I’m not angry. Just tired. Tired of waiting for him to see. Tired of hoping one day he’ll say, “Mum, you were right.” I don’t wait anymore. My youngest son is here. He helps, calls, visits. He has a family. He has a conscience.
And Thomas? He only has Emily.
