My son won’t speak to me anymore… and I don’t know when he became a stranger to me.
He’s my only child. My flesh and blood. My rock. My pride. He’s thirty now, and I’m sixty-one. I’ve given my whole life to him—worked myself to the bone, lost sleep, prayed. He’s from my first marriage. Now he’s got his own family—a wife and, not long ago, a much-wanted baby girl, my granddaughter. You’d think I’d be over the moon, especially since we live just a stone’s throw from each other. But no… we barely talk now.
Before my granddaughter came along, things were different. My son and I were close—he’d drop by often for a cuppa, ask my advice, or just to chat. I felt needed. Now? There’s a wall between us. He’s distant, as if I’ve betrayed him somehow. I sense he’s upset, but I can’t fathom why.
I’ve tried asking him gently—he clams up. I’ve asked his wife, but all she says is, “Sort it out between yourselves.” How can I, when he dodges every attempt?
When he was little, he was always poorly. I carried it all alone. My second husband, bless him, was kind but spineless. My son never saw him as a father, and he never pushed it. The burden—care, discipline, worry—all fell on me. I was mother and father. We weathered it all: bad crowds, fears he might be on drugs, teenage rebellion. I had to be hard. Not out of spite—out of fear. I couldn’t lose him. Was I perfect? No. But I was the one who never gave up.
Yet here’s the cruel thing—it all unravelled over something trivial. I asked for help with my laptop. I just don’t get these updates and apps… before, he’d help without a fuss. This time? He sighed, stood up, waved his wife over, and walked out. Didn’t even touch the scones I’d baked. Just left. And silence ever since.
At first, I thought he’d cool off and come round. But months passed. Nothing. He doesn’t even tell me when he travels abroad—I hear it from neighbours. My granddaughter only visits when her mother brings her. She’s polite, but cold. Not a word extra. And when I ask about my son? “That’s between you two,” she says.
I’ve stopped calling—don’t want to seem a nag. Thought if I stepped back, gave him space, he’d miss me. But no. The quieter I am, the further he drifts.
The hardest part isn’t anger or resentment. It’s the silence. The indifference. Like I’ve ceased to exist. No visits, no calls, no “How are you, Mum?” He didn’t even know when I was in hospital—his wife only heard by chance.
I don’t get it. I never meddled, never imposed. Helped when asked. Lent money, gave support. Don’t I deserve just a conversation?
I lie awake replaying every word, every meeting, hunting for where I went wrong. Did I overlook something? Hurt him without realising? Or am I just not needed anymore?
They say children grow distant. But not like this—not in utter silence. I’m not a stranger. I’m his mother.
Now it’s like walking on broken glass—every memory cuts. I look at his childhood photos, his drawings, and can’t believe the boy who once laughed with me now shuts me out like an enemy.
I don’t ask for much. No gifts, no money. Just his presence. His voice. A simple, “Hi, Mum.”
What do I do? How do I reach him when he’s the one pulling away? What do I say if 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?
—Lesson learned too late: Love isn’t just sacrifice. It’s knowing when to hold on—and when to let go.
