“Let them stay with you! You’re the one who raised him like this!” my ex-husband, James, shouted through the phone, his voice trembling with fury. I clutched the receiver, my chest tightening as his words cut deep. The argument was about our son, Thomas, and his girlfriend moving in together, but the conversation forced me to confront not just Thomas’s choices, but the mistakes James and I had made—mistakes that still haunted our family.
James and I divorced ten years ago. Thomas was fifteen then, and the split shattered him. Sometimes he blamed me, other times his father, and often he just withdrew. I tried to be both mother and friend—helping with homework, listening to stories about his mates, driving him to football practice. James, though, pulled away after the divorce. He paid child support, occasionally took Thomas for weekends, but there was no real bond. I saw how much our son missed him, but James was always too busy—new job, new family. I never said it out loud, but it broke my heart for Thomas.
Now Thomas is twenty-five. He’s grown, graduated from university, works in tech. Six months ago, he introduced me to his girlfriend, Emily. Sweet girl, works as a graphic designer, always polite and cheerful. When they decided to move in together, I was happy for them. But with no flat of their own yet, they asked to stay with me. My two-bedroom isn’t Buckingham Palace, but there was space. I gave them my room and took the sofa in the lounge, telling myself it was temporary—just until they saved enough for rent.
At first, it was fine. Emily helped around the house, Thomas bought groceries, sometimes they invited me to join them for dinner. But after a couple of months, I noticed Thomas growing irritable—snapping at Emily over little things, once even arguing about money. I stayed out of it—they were adults, they’d sort it. Then James called, furious. “Did you know your son refused to help me with the roof repairs? Said he had his own plans! And that Emily girl—she’s got no respect for me at all!”
I was surprised. Thomas had never mentioned James asking for help. Turned out, James wanted him to come down to his cottage in the Cotswolds and fix the roof. Thomas refused, citing work. And Emily, according to James, “thinks too highly of herself.” I tried to calm him. “James, they’re young, they’ve got their own lives. Maybe you’re pushing too hard?” But he exploded. “You coddled him! Turned him into a mummy’s boy, no respect for his father! Let them live with you, since you’re so generous!”
His words stung. *I* raised him? Where was he when Thomas needed a father? I dragged our son through the teenage years alone—through the slammed doors and silent treatments. But maybe James was right. Had I spoiled him? Bought him everything, shielded him from consequences? Had I made him too soft?
That night, when Emily was out with friends, I asked Thomas, “What’s going on with your dad? He says you refused to help.” He frowned. “Mum, he expects me to drop everything and drive to the middle of nowhere. I’ve got deadlines, projects—I can’t just bail. And Emily shouldn’t have to kiss his feet.” I nodded, uneasy. He made sense, but there was a hardness in his voice, like he’d stopped trying to understand James at all.
Later, Emily confessed James had made a crude joke at her expense, and she’d fired back. “I didn’t mean to offend him, but he acts like I owe him something,” she said. It struck me then—this wasn’t just about Thomas. James wanted control but gave nothing in return.
The fight with James left me thinking about our marriage, our failures. Had we shown Thomas family means compromise? I wouldn’t meddle, but I’d ask him and Emily to be patient. Respect matters, even when it’s hard. I told James the same—to ease up, to rebuild. He grumbled but promised to try.
Now I watch Thomas and Emily—young, hopeful, stumbling—and see ourselves thirty years ago. My flat’s their halfway house, but soon they’ll leave. And I’ll be left with memories and this quiet hope: that my son and his father might still find common ground. That maybe, one day, James will realize parenting was never just my job—it was his, too.
