In my old age, my eldest son has stopped speaking to me. He has gone back to the woman who once broke his heart.
Every mother wants only the best for her child—someone to love, a fulfilling job, a life free from pain and disappointment. But as often happens, children don’t listen. They repeat the same mistakes, stumbling over the same hurdles. So it was with my son. After his divorce, he seemed to have learned his lesson. And then—he stepped back into the same abyss.
When he first returned home from university, young and hopeful, he met a girl named Emma. Word travels fast in our small town in Yorkshire. The rumours reached me quickly—she had a bad reputation, too many boyfriends, endless rows with her parents. Still, I decided to give her a chance. After all, I’m his mother. Meeting her meant understanding who had captured my boy’s heart.
I scrubbed the house spotless, made a roast dinner, set the table. And then she arrived—chewing gum, defiance in her eyes, her manners sharp and careless. No greeting, no respect in her tone. She left me with the impression of someone who couldn’t care less about others.
People asked me then, “Margaret, can’t you see the mess he’s getting into?” I could. Of course I could. But James was blind. Within a month, they applied for a marriage license. Emma’s parents paid for everything. I stayed silent. I hoped love would change her.
But no miracle came. Emma didn’t cook, didn’t clean, ordered takeaways every night, and when James came home exhausted—she threw tantrums. He would come to me, in tears, drink tea, then go back to her. Until, quietly, without a fight, they divorced. Six months later.
I watched him suffer. He shut down. Avoided conversation. And I, still his mother, tried to help. I introduced him to the daughter of an old friend—kind, gentle, steady. Not a beauty, but with a heart full of warmth. They began seeing each other, laughing, making plans. I imagined grandchildren in my arms. But then—
Emma came back.
First, she called. Then she visited. Then James started disappearing. One day, he told that kind girl—the one who had helped him heal—that they were “too different.” A week later, he told me he was remarrying. Emma.
I couldn’t believe it. “Why?” I asked. “You’ve been through this before! You know how it ends.” He only stayed silent. When he finally mustered the courage, he called and 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 awake at night, who held his hand when he couldn’t get out of bed. For who? For the woman who had already shattered him once. For the woman even her own parents couldn’t defend.
I wouldn’t have gone. I know that. But hearing it—it felt like a slap.
Now I often think: I had two sons. Now, only one. Though both are alive. The other has erased me from his life. And for what? For being honest? For wanting to spare him pain?
They say you must never turn your back on your children, no matter what. But what do you do when the child is the one pushing you away—when your words, your care, become a burden he discards like an old coat?
I don’t curse him. I don’t rage. I’m just tired. Tired of waiting for him to see the truth. Tired of hoping for the day he’d say, “Mum, you were right.” I don’t wait anymore. My youngest son is with me. He calls. He visits. He has a family, a conscience.
And James? He has only Emma.
Some wounds never heal. Some lessons, love cannot teach. A mother’s heart breaks—but the world goes on.
