My son and his wife decided to sell the cottage I gave them, breaking my heart in the process.
When my son James announced his engagement, my heart swelled with joy. Three years earlier, I’d been widowed, and loneliness had settled over me like a thick fog. Living in a quiet town in the Cotswolds, I dreamed of bonding with my future daughter-in-law, helping raise grandchildren, and feeling the warmth of family again. But nothing went as I’d hoped, and now their decision to sell the cottage I’d gifted them feels like the final straw, shattering what’s left of my heart.
From the start, I tried not to meddle in James and Emily’s life, though much of her behaviour rubbed me the wrong way. Their flat was always drowning in dust—Emily seldom lifted a duster, let alone mopped. I bit my tongue, fearing conflict, but privately worried for my son. Even worse was the fact that Emily rarely cooked. James lived off ready meals or overpriced takeaways. I watched as he shouldered the household expenses while Emily splurged her modest paycheck on beauty treatments and new clothes. Still, I kept quiet to keep the peace.
To support him, I started inviting James over after work. I’d cook proper meals—roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, treacle pudding—hoping he’d feel a bit of home. Once, before Emily’s birthday, I offered to help with the cooking. *”No need,”* she snapped. *”We’re dining out. I don’t fancy sweating over a stove and looking knackered at my own party.”* Her words stung. *”In my day, we managed just fine,”* I countered. *”Restaurants are so expensive!”* Emily bristled. *”Stop counting our pennies! We’re not asking you for a single quid—we earn our own!”* I clenched my jaw, but her arrogance cut deep.
Years passed. Emily had two children—my beloved grandchildren, Sophie and Oliver. But their upbringing horrified me. Spoiled rotten, they were never told no. They stayed up past midnight glued to screens, their rooms a permanent jumble. I bit my tongue, terrified of pushing James and Emily away. Silence became my armour, but it wore my soul thin.
Then, last week, James dropped the bombshell I’m still reeling from. He and Emily are selling the cottage I gave them last year. Tucked among pines and oaks by the river, it was the heart of our family. My late husband, William, adored that place. We spent every summer there, tending the veg patch, pruning the apple and cherry trees. After he passed, I kept going for a few years, but the upkeep became too much. With a heavy heart, I handed it to James, trusting he’d bring his family there—that the children would run barefoot in the grass and splash in the stream.
But Emily turned her nose up. *”An outdoor loo, hauling water from the well—it’s hardly a holiday,”* she scoffed. *”We’d rather go to Spain!”* James backed her up. *”Mum, who wants that hassle? We’ll sell it and book a proper getaway.”* Hurt clogged my throat. *”What about your father’s memory?”* I choked out. *”I thought you’d love it like he did!”* James just shrugged. *”It’s not for us.”*
My heart shattered. That cottage isn’t just bricks and land—it’s decades of laughter, of William’s dreams for future generations to love it as he had. Now it’ll be flogged off like clutter, traded for a fortnight 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, only to realise now that silence let them forget what truly matters. And this pain? I doubt it’ll ever fade.
