“You let them live with you! You raised him this way!” shouted my ex-husband, Richard, his voice trembling with anger. I stood there, clutching the phone to my ear, feeling a tightness in my chest. The argument was about our son, James, and his girlfriend, who had decided to move in together. But that conversation with Richard made me reflect not just on James, but on how our past mistakes had shaped our family.
Richard and I divorced ten years ago. James was fifteen at the time, and the split hit him hard. He blamed me sometimes, other times his father, and often just shut himself away. I tried to be both a mother and a friend—helping with homework, listening to stories about his mates, driving him to football practice. After the divorce, Richard kept his distance. He paid child support and occasionally took James for weekends, but there was no real closeness. I watched our son miss his dad, but Richard was always busy—new job, new family. I never judged, but it hurt to see James ache for his father’s attention.
Now James is twenty-five. He’s grown into a man, graduated from university, and works in tech. Six months ago, he introduced me to his girlfriend, Emily. She’s lovely, a graphic designer, always polite and cheerful. When they decided to move in together, I was happy for them. But since they couldn’t afford their own flat yet, they asked to stay with me. My two-bedroom isn’t a palace, but there was enough space. I gave them my bedroom and moved to the sofa in the lounge, thinking it would be temporary until they saved up for rent.
At first, things were fine. Emily helped around the house, James bought groceries, and sometimes they invited me to join them for dinner. But after a couple of months, I noticed James becoming snappy. He’d snap at Emily over little things, and once I overheard them arguing about money. I stayed out of it—they were adults, they could sort it out themselves. Then Richard called, furious. “Do you know your son refused to help me with the bloody roof repairs? Said he had his own plans! And that Emily girl doesn’t respect me at all!”
I was surprised. James had never mentioned his father asking for help. Turned out, Richard wanted him to come up to his cottage and fix the roof over the bank holiday weekend. James refused, saying he was busy with work. And Emily, according to Richard, “thinks too highly of herself.” I tried to calm him down. “Richard, they’re young, they’ve got their own lives. Maybe you’re pushing too hard?” But he exploded. “You coddled him! Raised 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 Richard when James needed a father? I was the one who got him through his teen years, the arguments and tears. But maybe Richard was right—had I spoiled James? Had I made him selfish? I started remembering all the times I indulged him: buying whatever he wanted, shielding him from problems. Had I made him too dependent?
I decided to talk to James. That evening, when Emily was out with friends, I asked, “James, what’s going on with your dad? He said you refused to help him.” My son frowned. “Mum, he expects me to drop everything and drive up to his place. I’ve got deadlines, projects—I can’t just bail. And Emily doesn’t owe him anything.” I nodded, but something felt off. James made sense, but his tone was sharp, like he couldn’t even try to understand his dad.
Later, I spoke to Emily. She admitted Richard had made a rude joke about her, and she’d answered back. “I didn’t mean to offend him, but he acts like I should just obey him,” she said. Then I realised—it wasn’t just James. Richard wanted control but wouldn’t meet anyone halfway.
That row with my ex made me think hard. I remembered our marriage, our mistakes. Maybe Richard and I never showed James that family means compromise. I decided not to interfere in their fight, but I’d ask James and Emily to be more patient. They’re young, with their whole lives ahead, but respecting elders matters. I also talked to Richard, suggesting he ease up and try rebuilding trust with James. He grumbled but promised to think about it.
Now, watching James and Emily, I see us in them—full of hope but stumbling through their own troubles. I don’t want them to repeat our mistakes. My flat is their stopgap, but soon they’ll fly the nest. And I’ll be left with memories and the hope that my son and his father find common ground. Maybe one day Richard will realise parenting wasn’t just my job—it was his too.
