My son and his wife have decided to sell the cottage I gave them, breaking my heart in the process.
When my son Oliver announced his plans to marry, my heart swelled with joy. Three years ago, I lost my husband, and loneliness settled heavily on my shoulders. Living in a small town in the Cotswolds, I dreamed of bonding with my daughter-in-law, helping raise my grandchildren, and feeling the warmth of family again. But nothing went as I hoped, and now their decision to sell the cottage I gifted them has become the final straw, shattering my heart.
From the start, I tried not to interfere in Oliver and Emily’s lives, though much of her behaviour grated on me. Their flat was always buried under a layer of dust—Emily rarely bothered with deep cleaning. I bit my tongue, afraid of causing tension, but inside, I worried for my son. What troubled me even more was how little she cooked. Oliver lived on ready meals or expensive takeaway dinners, while Emily spent her modest wages on beauty salons and clothes. I could see him carrying the family on his salary alone, but I kept quiet, not wanting to stir trouble.
To support him, I began inviting him over after work. I made homemade meals—roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, apple crumble—hoping he’d feel the comfort of family. Once, before Emily’s birthday, I offered to help cook. “No need,” she snapped. “We’ve booked a restaurant. I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen looking like a worn-out rag on my own birthday.” Her words stung. “In my day, we managed everything ourselves,” I said. “Restaurants cost so much!” Emily flared up: “Stop counting our money! We don’t ask you for a penny—we earn our own!” I held my tongue, but her arrogance cut deep.
Years passed. Emily gave birth to two children—my beloved grandchildren, Lily and Ethan. But their upbringing horrified me. Spoiled rotten, denied nothing, they stayed up past midnight glued to screens, with no sense of discipline. I feared speaking up, not wanting to push Oliver and Emily away. Silence became my shield, yet it drained my soul.
Then, just recently, Oliver dropped a bombshell I still haven’t recovered from. He and Emily have decided to sell the cottage I gave them last year. Nestled among pines and oaks by a river, it was the heart of our family. My late husband, Henry, adored that place. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch and the garden blooming with apple and cherry trees. After he passed, I kept going for a few more years, but the upkeep became too much. With a heavy heart, I gifted it to Oliver, believing he’d take his family there—that the children would breathe fresh air and splash in the river.
But Emily hated it. “An outdoor loo, hauling water from the well—that’s not a holiday,” she declared. “We’d rather go to Spain!” Oliver backed her: “Mum, who wants that hassle? We’re selling it and going to the Costa del Sol.” The words choked me. “What about your father’s memory?” I blurted. “I thought you’d make it a family place!” But Oliver just shrugged. “We don’t want it. It’s not for us.”
My heart shattered. That cottage isn’t just land—it’s memories of our happiest days, of Henry’s laughter, of his dream that our children and grandchildren would love it as he did. Now they’ll sell it like junk, just for a few days in the sun. I feel betrayed—not just by my son, but by my own naivety. I stayed silent for years to keep the peace, but now I see: my silence let them forget what truly matters. And this pain—I don’t think it will ever fade.
