In my old age, my son stopped talking to me. He went back to that woman who’d already broken his heart once.
Every mother wants the best for her child—someone who truly loves them, a job that brings them joy, a life without pain or regrets. But so often, kids don’t listen. They make the same mistakes, step on the same rakes. That’s what happened with my eldest. After the divorce, I thought he’d finally learned. And then—he walked right back into the same pit.
When he first came home after uni, young and full of hope, he met a girl named Poppy. Our little town in Yorkshire didn’t take long to buzz with rumours—she had a bad reputation, too many lads, endless rows with her parents. But I thought, fine, I’ll give her a chance. I’m his mum, after all. Meeting Poppy meant understanding who’d stolen my boy’s heart.
I scrubbed the flat till it sparkled, made a proper roast, set the table nice. And then she showed up—chewing gum, looking me dead in the eye like she owned the place, not a single “hello” or word of respect. Left me thinking she didn’t care a whit about anyone else.
People kept asking, “Margaret, can’t you see what he’s getting himself into?” Of course I saw. But Oliver was blind back then. A month later, they were engaged. Poppy’s parents paid for everything. I bit my tongue. I hoped love might soften her.
It didn’t. She never cooked, never cleaned, just ordered takeaways, and when Oliver came home knackered, she’d scream the house down. He’d run to me, cry over tea, then go back to her. Until they split. Quietly. No drama. Six months in.
I watched him unravel—closed off, silent, dodging any real talk. So, like any mum, I tried to help. Introduced him to my old friend’s daughter. Clever, kind, steady. Not a stunner, but warm-hearted. They started seeing each other, laughing, making plans. I even let myself picture grandkids. But then—
Poppy came back.
First it was calls. Then visits. Then Oliver started vanishing again. One day, he turned up at that good girl’s door—the one who’d helped him stand on his own two feet—and told her they were “too different.” A week later, he rang me to say he was marrying Poppy. Again.
I couldn’t believe it. “Why?” I asked. “You already know how this ends!” He just went quiet. Then, when he finally found the nerve, he said, “Mum, don’t come to the wedding. I know how you feel about her. Don’t want to ruin the day for either of us.”
He shut me out. Me—the one who stayed up nights, who held his hand when he couldn’t get out of bed. For what? For her. The one who wrecked him once. The one even her own parents can’t defend.
I wouldn’t have gone. I knew that. But hearing it? Like a slap in the face.
Now I think: I had two sons. Now I’ve got one. Both alive, but one’s erased me. And for what? Because I was honest? Because I tried to spare him the hurt?
They say you never turn your back on your kids, no matter what. But what do you do when they’re the ones shutting you out? When your love feels like a burden they’re desperate to drop?
I don’t curse him. I’m not even angry. Just tired. Tired of waiting for him to wake up. Tired of hoping he’ll ever say, “Mum, you were right.” I’ve stopped waiting. My younger son’s still here—calls, visits, helps out. He’s got a family, a conscience.
And Oliver? He’s only got Poppy.
