My son and his wife decided to sell the cottage I gave them, breaking my heart.
When my son James announced he was getting married, my heart swelled with joy. I had been widowed three years before, and loneliness had settled heavily on my shoulders. Living in a small town in the Cotswolds, I dreamed of bonding with my daughter-in-law, helping to 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 gifted them feels like the final straw, shattering my heart.
From the start, my relationship with my daughter-in-law, Victoria, was strained. I tried not to interfere in James and Victoria’s lives, though much of her behaviour grated on me. Their flat was always drowning in dust—Victoria rarely bothered with proper cleaning. I bit my tongue, afraid of causing conflict, but inside, I worried for my son. What stung even more was that Victoria hardly ever cooked. James survived on ready meals or expensive takeaways. I watched as he carried the weight of their finances on his salary while Victoria blew her modest wages on beauty treatments and new clothes. But I stayed quiet, not wanting to stir trouble.
To support James, I began inviting him over after work. I’d cook proper meals—roast dinners, shepherd’s pie, apple crumble—hoping he’d feel the comfort of home. Once, before Victoria’s birthday, I offered to help prepare a meal. “No need,” she snapped. “We’ve booked a fancy restaurant. I don’t want to be stuck in the kitchen looking like a washed-up dishrag on my own birthday.” Her words stung. “In my day, I managed everything myself,” I retorted. “And restaurants are so costly!” Victoria 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. Victoria had two children—my precious grandchildren, Emily and Thomas. But the way they were being raised horrified me. Spoiled rotten, they were given everything. They stayed up past midnight glued to their phones and tablets, with no sense of discipline. I was afraid to speak up, terrified of pushing James and Victoria away. My silence became my shield, but it drained me.
Then, just recently, James dropped the bombshell I still can’t get over. He and Victoria decided to sell the cottage I gave them just a year ago. That cottage, tucked among pines and oaks by the river, was the heart of our family. My late husband, William, adored it. We spent every summer there, growing vegetables, tending the garden where apple and pear trees bloomed. After he passed, I kept going for a few more years, but I no longer had the strength to manage the land. With a heavy heart, I gifted it to James, trusting he’d bring his family there—that the children would breathe fresh air and splash in the river.
But Victoria didn’t care for it. “An outdoor loo, hauling water from the well—that’s not a holiday,” she said. “We’d rather go to Spain!” James backed her up: “Mum, who wants to rough it? It’s not for us. We’ll sell it and book a proper holiday.” I choked back tears. “What about your father’s memory?” I burst out. “I thought you’d make it your family retreat!” But James just shrugged. “We don’t want to go there. It’s not our thing.”
My heart shattered. That cottage wasn’t just land—it was memories of our happiest days, of William’s laughter, of his dream that our children and grandchildren would love it as much as he did. Now they’ll sell it like some unwanted trinket, all for a week on a beach. I feel betrayed—not just by my son, but by my own foolish hope. I stayed silent for years to keep peace, but now I see: my silence let them forget what really matters. And this pain—I don’t think it will ever fade.
