In a quaint town nestled in the rolling hills of the Cotswolds, where ivy-clad cottages stood alongside cobbled lanes, my world was upended by my son’s plea—a request that shattered my heart. I, Eleanor, had always strived to give my youngest, Oliver, the very best. But his recent proposal forced a choice that splintered our family.
I disapproved of Oliver marrying so young. Not because I disliked his sweetheart, Amelia—but at twenty-seven, he was only just beginning his career. He’d barely secured a decent position, yet he insisted he could provide for a household. Oliver never had patience—his impulsive nature always won out. Six months ago, he wed Amelia, and they rented a flat in the heart of London. But reality struck hard: their rent swallowed over half their earnings.
They resolved to save for a home of their own, dreaming of a deposit for a mortgage—an admirable yet daunting goal. Then one evening, Oliver arrived with a proposal that turned my blood to ice.
“Mum,” he began, eyes earnest, “Amelia and I have found a way to save faster. Move into our holiday cottage in the Lake District. We’ll stay in your flat. We’ll skip rent and save quicker.”
I froze. The cottage he meant was a cramped, drafty thing on the edge of the moors, with barely enough room to turn around. He pressed on, oblivious to my dismay.
“It’s got plumbing, electricity—everything you’d need. Just until we’ve got the deposit sorted! It’s only temporary.”
His words stung like betrayal. I’d raised him alone, denying myself so he’d lack nothing. Yet here he was, asking me to abandon my comfort for his dream. I didn’t need time to decide—but I waited a night to steady myself.
I knew my son. If he settled into my flat, his frugality would vanish. Why scrimp when comfort was free? Oliver thrived in ease. If relief came, his urgency would fade. He’d linger in my home, and I’d be left shivering in that bleak cottage, miles from anything.
Besides, I wasn’t ready to surrender my life. I still worked, and the commute from the moors would swallow hours. That cottage was for summer weekends, not winters. Why should I suffer so he could dodge struggle? That wasn’t help—it was a disservice.
The next day, I summoned Oliver and Amelia to settle the matter. My voice trembled, but my resolve didn’t.
“I won’t move to the cottage,” I said. “That’s final. But I’ll help you with rent, so you can keep saving.”
Oliver paled. His warm eyes turned sharp with hurt. Amelia stared at her lap.
“You’re only thinking of yourself,” he snapped. “It’s not forever, and you won’t even try!”
“Help?” I whispered, tears clawing at my throat. “I’ve spent my life helping you, Oliver. Now you want me to toss mine aside for your plans? That isn’t fair.”
They left in silence. After that, our bond grew cold as January frost. Calls ceased; when I reached out, replies were stiff, as though I’d become a stranger. My heart ached—I’d lost my only son, the boy I adored. But I knew I’d done right.
I couldn’t let him stall halfway to his dream, growing too comfortable in my home. And I wouldn’t sacrifice myself so he’d avoid hardship. My life, too, had worth. I’d earned my place in my own house, among familiar warmth. Oliver’s anger cut deep, but I cling to hope—one day he’ll see my refusal wasn’t selfishness, but love. Until then, I bear the hurt, waiting for time to mend what’s broken.
