My son doesn’t want to talk to me anymore… and I don’t even know when he became a stranger to me.
You know, I’ve only got one son. My pride and joy, my rock. He’s 30 now, and I just turned 61. Spent my whole life putting him first—worked myself to the bone, lost sleep, prayed for him. He’s from my first marriage. Now he’s got his own family, a wife, and recently, a little granddaughter—my first. You’d think I’d be over the moon, right? We even live close, just across the courtyard. But no… we hardly speak anymore.
Before my granddaughter came along, things were different. Me and my lad, we were close. He’d pop round for tea, ask my advice, sometimes just to chat. Felt like I still mattered to him. Now? There’s this wall between us. He’s distant, like I’ve done something to betray him. I can tell he’s upset, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.
I’ve tried gently asking him—nothing. Asked his wife, and she just says, “Sort it out between yourselves.” But how, when he dodges every conversation?
When he was little, he was always poorly. I carried it all on my own back then. My second husband, bless him, was kind but spineless. My son never saw him as a dad, and he never pushed it. So it was all on me—the discipline, the worries, the hard choices. I was mum and dad rolled into one. We went through it all—bad crowds, scares about drugs, teenage rebellion. Had to be tough. Not out of anger, but fear. I couldn’t lose him. Wasn’t the perfect mum, no. But I was the one who never gave up.
Funny thing is, this rift started over something tiny. I asked him to help with my computer—you know I’m hopeless with updates and all that. Before, he’d just sort it, no fuss. This time? He sighed, stood up, called his wife, and left. Didn’t even touch the scones I’d baked. Just walked out. And since then? Silence.
Thought maybe he’d cool off, come round. But weeks turned to months… nothing. Doesn’t even tell me when he goes abroad—I hear it from neighbours. Only see my granddaughter when his wife brings her over. She’s polite, but cold. Won’t say a word more than needed. And when I ask about my son? “Not my place,” she says. “Talk to him yourself.”
I’ve stopped calling now—don’t want to seem pushy. Thought giving him space might make him miss me. But no… the quieter I am, the further he drifts.
The hardest part isn’t the anger or the blame. It’s the silence. The indifference. Like I don’t exist anymore. No visits, no calls, no “How are you, Mum?” Didn’t even ask when I was in hospital—his wife only found out by chance.
I don’t understand. Never nagged, never meddled, helped when they asked—loaned money, supported them. Don’t I deserve even a proper chat?
I lie awake some nights, replaying every word, every meeting, wondering where I went wrong. Missed something? Hurt him without realising? Or am I just… not needed anymore?
They say kids grow up and drift apart. But not like this—not in dead silence. I’m not a stranger. I’m his mum.
Now it’s like walking on broken glass—every memory cuts deep. Look at old photos, his childhood drawings, and can’t believe that cheerful little lad now acts like I’m the enemy.
I don’t want much. No gifts, no money, no fuss. Just… him. His voice. A simple “Hello, Mum.”
What do I do? How do you fix things when he’s the one pulling away? What do you say when he won’t listen? Or do I just accept it? But how do you live when your heart’s breaking and your own child acts like you’re already gone?
