**Diary Entry**
*”Let them stay with you! You’re the one who raised him this way!”* My ex-husband, David, yelled through the phone, his voice trembling with anger. I stood there, clutching the receiver, feeling my chest tighten. The argument was about our son, James, and his girlfriend moving in together. But that conversation with David made me reflect not just on James but on how our past mistakes had shaped our family.
David and I divorced ten years ago. James was fifteen at the time, and the split hit him hard. One day he blamed me, the next his father, and sometimes he just shut down entirely. I tried to be both his mum and his friend—helping with homework, listening to stories about his mates, driving him to football practice. David, though, pulled away after the divorce. He paid child support and took James some weekends, but there was no real bond. I saw how much our son missed him, but David was always too busy—new job, new family. I didn’t judge, but it hurt to watch James ache for his father.
Now James is twenty-five. He’s grown up, graduated from university, and works for a tech firm. Six months ago, he introduced me to his girlfriend, Sophie—a sweet, polite girl who works as a graphic designer. When they decided to move in together, I was happy for them. But since they hadn’t yet saved enough for their own flat, they asked to stay with me for a while. My two-bed isn’t a palace, but there was space. I gave them my bedroom and took the sofa in the living room, figuring it was temporary until they got on their feet.
At first, it was fine. Sophie helped around the house, James pitched in with groceries, and sometimes they’d invite me to join them for dinner. But after a couple of months, I noticed James becoming snappy. He’d lash out at Sophie over small things, and once I overheard them arguing about money. I stayed out of it—they’re adults, they can sort their own problems. Then David called, furious. *”Did you know your son refused to help me with the roof repairs? Said he had his own plans! And that Sophie of his has no respect for me!”*
I was surprised—James had never mentioned David asking for help. Turns out, David had expected him to drop everything and drive to his country cottage to fix the roof. James had refused, citing work deadlines. And Sophie, according to David, *”acted like she was too good for him.”* I tried to calm him down: *”David, they’re young, they’ve got their own lives. Maybe you’re pushing too hard?”* But he erupted: *”You spoiled him! Turned him into a mummy’s boy, and now he’s got no respect for his father! Let them live with you, since you’re so generous!”*
His words stung. *I* raised him? Where was David when James needed a father? I was the one who got him through teenage tantrums and heartbreaks. But maybe David was right—had I coddled James too much? Had I made him selfish? I started remembering how I’d indulged him—buying whatever he wanted, shielding him from struggles. Maybe I *had* made him too dependent.
I decided to talk to James. That evening, while Sophie was out with friends, I asked, *”What’s going on with your dad? He said you refused to help him.”* James scowled. *”Mum, he expects me to drop my job and rush to his cottage. I’ve got projects due—I can’t just leave. And Sophie doesn’t owe him anything.”* I nodded, but something didn’t sit right. James was making sense, but his tone was sharp, like he couldn’t even be bothered to understand his dad.
Later, I spoke to Sophie. She admitted David had made a rude joke about her, and she’d snapped back. *”I didn’t mean to hurt him, but he acts like I should just bow to him,”* she said. Then it clicked—this wasn’t just about James. David wanted control but wasn’t willing to meet anyone halfway.
That call with my ex made me think about our marriage, our mistakes. Maybe David and I had failed to show James that family means compromise. I decided not to meddle in their feud, but I’d ask James and Sophie to be more patient. They’re young—they’ve got their whole lives ahead—but respecting elders matters. I also told David to ease up and try rebuilding the relationship. He grumbled but said he’d think about it.
Now, watching James and Sophie, I see echoes of David and me at their age—full of hope but tripping over their own pride. I don’t want them repeating our mistakes. My flat is their landing pad for now, but soon they’ll fly the nest. And I’ll be left with memories and a quiet hope—that one day, my son and his father might find common ground. Maybe David will even realise that raising James wasn’t just my job—it was his too.
**Lesson:** Sometimes the hardest part of parenting is stepping back and trusting you’ve done enough—even when the past whispers doubts.
