Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my son—not physically, but in spirit, in heart. He seems to fade before my eyes, losing himself, his will, his character. And all because of the woman he’s with. The one who once seemed so dependable and worthy, but turned out to be… I don’t even know the word, lest I dissolve into tears or screams.
Thomas married a few years ago. He was in his thirties by then, with a stable job and a rising career. He’d just become director of a logistics firm in Manchester. He already had a son from his first marriage, and I always thought he’d be extra careful choosing his second wife. Yes, things moved quickly with Laura. She had her own business—owned a chain of boutiques, always busy, strict, no nonsense. But I kept my distance. As long as he was happy.
Before the wedding, Laura lived with us for a few months. Back then, I thought she had grit—no idle chatter, kept the house in order. Thomas was glowing, saying he’d found ‘the one.’ The wedding was modest but heartfelt—gifts, toasts, flowers. Then they moved into their own flat.
A couple of months later, Laura announced, “It’s time I had a baby.” Past her prime, no time to waste. At first, she struggled to conceive. Then she went to the Maldives with a friend and returned with news: “I’m pregnant.” Thomas was overjoyed. I felt uneasy but stayed out of it.
The pregnancy was rough. Laura was irritable, volatile—weeping one moment, shouting the next. Thomas called me, asking if this was normal. I told him hormones could do strange things. I thought it would settle after the birth.
It only got worse. When they left the hospital, Thomas brought her an exquisite bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it straight into the bin by the entrance. I looked at my son—shoulders slumped, lost. I didn’t know whether to hug him or scream in frustration.
Later, she’d leave the baby with me while she ran errands. I’d come over, mind the little one. Her house was immaculate, every detail scheduled—feeding, naps, walks. But from her? No smile, no thanks. Always tense, cold, simmering with quiet anger. I felt like an outsider, though I helped however I could.
A year passed, then another. Nothing changed. Thomas became a shell of himself—exhausted, defeated, like a candle burnt out. I tried talking to him; he blamed tiredness, then admitted, “I don’t know how to live with her. She’s never happy. Nothing’s ever right.” He’d ask what was wrong, how to fix it. In return? Shouting, threats: “I’ll go to my parents, take the baby, and you’ll never see him again.”
Then came the nightmare. Laura banned him from work trips. “I’m not a babysitter—he’s your child, you look after him.” Thomas quit as director, switched to remote work, took side gigs with flexible hours. His salary halved. Laura sneered that he was “a nobody” now, “mooching off her.” All while he’d done it for her, for their family.
Last month, he fell ill—flu, fever spiking. I asked if they’d bring the baby to me to avoid infection. Laura refused. I went over anyway. Stepping inside, I nearly collapsed. Thomas, flushed and sweating, was scrubbing floors and dishes. She lounged on the sofa, phone in hand, muttering, “Why should he lie about? I worked through my fevers.”
I sat at the kitchen table and wept. My son—a man with a heart of gold, sharp and kind—had become a ghost. She’s breaking him, draining him, erasing him. And he endures it, forgives it all. What can I do? Talk to him—he won’t listen. Talk to her—pointless. She’s ice, unmovable. I fear one day he’ll simply snap. And I’ll lose him—this time, for good.
Some people mistake love for possession, kindness for weakness. But no one should vanish just to keep another warm.
