In my old age, my son stopped speaking to me. He went back to the woman who had broken his heart before.
Every mother wants only the best for her child—someone to love, work that fulfills them, a life without pain or disappointment. But so often, children don’t listen. They make the same mistakes, fall into the same traps. That’s what happened with my eldest. After his divorce, I thought he’d finally understood. Then—back to the same abyss.
When he first returned home after university, young and full of hope, he met a girl named Chelsea. Gossip in our small town in Yorkshire spread fast: she had a reputation, a string of exes, constant rows with her parents. But I gave her a chance. I’m his mother. Meeting her meant understanding who’d captured my boy’s heart.
I scrubbed the flat spotless, made a roast dinner, set the table. And in she walked—chewing gum, a defiant stare, no manners at all. No “hello,” no respect. She left the impression of someone who couldn’t care less about anyone else.
People asked me, “Margaret, can’t you see the mess he’s walking into?” Of course I could. But William was blind then. A month later, they applied for a marriage license. Chelsea’s parents paid for everything. I held my tongue. I hoped love would change her.
It didn’t. She didn’t cook, didn’t clean, ordered takeaway every night, and when William came home exhausted, she’d throw fits. He’d run to me, cry into his tea, then go back to her. Until they split. Quietly. Without a scene. Six months in.
I watched him suffer. He shut down. Avoided talking. And I—his mother—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 even pictured babysitting their children. But—
Chelsea came back.
First calls. Then visits. Then William started disappearing. One day, he told that poor girl—the one who’d helped him heal—that they were “too different.” A week later, he called to say he was remarrying. Chelsea.
I couldn’t believe it. “Why? You’ve been through this! You know how it ends.” He stayed silent. Then, mustering courage, he said, “Mum, don’t come to the wedding. I know how you feel about her. I don’t want to ruin the day for either of us.”
He shut me out—me, the mother who stayed up nights, who held his hand when he couldn’t face the world. For who? For the woman who’d shattered him once. For the woman even her own parents couldn’t defend.
I wouldn’t have gone. I knew that. But hearing it? Like a slap.
Now I wonder: I had two sons. Now, just one. Both alive—but one erased me from his life. For what? Because I was honest? Because I tried to spare him pain?
They say you must never turn your back on your child, no matter what. But what do you do when your child shuts you out, ignores you, pushes you away? When your love and care become a burden he shrugs off like useless weight?
I don’t curse him. I’m not angry. Just tired. Tired of waiting for him to see the truth. Tired of hoping he’ll one day say, “Mum, you were right.” I’ve stopped waiting. My younger son is here. He calls, visits, helps. He’s got a family. He’s got a conscience.
And William? He’s got Chelsea.
