“It breaks my heart to admit this, but I can no longer bear the silence of my own son,” the words tasted bitter as she wrote them, the weight of years pressing down. Her boy—the one she had carried, raised, and loved beyond measure—now acted as though she no longer existed. And it had all begun when *she* came into his life: his wife, her daughter-in-law. Even now, she couldn’t fathom her own fault. Where had she slipped? How could her own family turn so cold?
She had raised him alone. There had been men, yes, but never the right ones—some took advantage of her kindness, others simply vanished. Perhaps it was her nature; perhaps she had mistaken affection for love in those lean years. In the ‘80s, she had worked herself raw, saving every penny, skipping meals so he could have shoes for school, books to finish his studies. She had pushed through exhaustion, never complaining, never slowing.
Then came a man, married but kind, who became their lifeline. He helped secure her son a position at an oil company—steady work, a way forward. With that, her boy found his footing, graduated from college, climbed the ranks. She had believed in him fiercely, even when he dreamed beyond wages, when he spoke of starting his own business. She gave him money, even when her own cupboards were bare.
Then he brought home *her*—pretty, yes, but with a sharpness disguised as charm. A quick pregnancy, a rushed wedding. A friend had offered money for the rings, and that was when the first warning pulsed in my chest. She chose a ring worth twice the budget, never asking, never hesitating. When I gently suggested something modest, her stare turned venomous. From that moment, I was her enemy.
I stayed silent. Endured it. Even bought them a car, so he could work extra shifts. Then, chaos. They sold it. The money dwindled. Her parents sneered—*what sort of man can’t provide?*—and soon, divorce. He drowned himself in drink, lost his license. I pulled him from that pit, stood by him as he rebuilt. Then, as soon as the money returned, so did *she*. And he let her. And me? I became a ghost.
The business is in my name—debts forced it. He pays, in dribs and drabs. Then came the gambling, desperate stabs at winning back what he’d lost: his wife, his pride, his future. I gave him more—for employees, rent, another chance. He promised it would work. I believed him. Then came the demands: quit my job, become his full-time help. I did. Now I wait, forgotten, unless they need something. Even my granddaughter—what can I buy her? Nothing.
He gifted me a car once, sleek and new. Yet I cannot fuel it, cannot insure it—he gives me nothing. Sometimes he takes it, returns it broken. Once, when I needed it most, the engine simply won’t start. And still, I pay the loan for his last car, the one he abandoned in my name. Do I protest? No. Because I am his mother.
I gave them a share of my flat. Now, holidays pass without an invitation—no Christmas, no birthdays. Once, I visited him at work. He shouted, said I embarrassed him. Why? I don’t drink. I wrote for journals, joined a writers’ circle, worked my whole life. I’m not some ragged thing to be ashamed of.
Sometimes I apologize—for what, I don’t know. Just, *please forgive me if I’ve failed you.* Now? I’m blocked. Calls unanswered. Messages unread. The silence is a weight, crushing. I sit by the window, watch other children pass, and wonder: what did I do? Why has my son—my whole world—decided I’m no longer needed?
I weep for the love I cannot speak, for the betrayal I cannot name. He was meant to be my comfort, my pride. Now he is a stranger. All I have left are memories, and the frail hope that one day, he’ll remember—my hand holding his when he was small, my voice steady when the world was loud. Maybe then he’ll understand: a mother does not betray. A mother only loves.
