**Diary Entry – 12th June**
My son rented out our flat without even bothering to tell us. We gave him everything, and now we’re left with nothing.
My husband, Gregory, and I married at twenty-three, fresh out of university—both of us teachers. I was already expecting, but thankfully, we’d finished our degrees. Neither of us came from money—no golden inheritance, no well-off relatives. From day one, we scraped by, working ourselves to the bone.
I barely took maternity leave. Stress and poor nutrition meant I couldn’t breastfeed, so we switched our boy to formula early. By eleven months, he was in nursery, learning to use a spoon, a potty, and sleep without rocking. Meanwhile, Gregory and I threw ourselves into work—rented flats, lived in staff housing, saved up for a one-bed, then later a two-bed in a nicer part of town.
A few years back, we bought a cottage plot in the Cotswolds. Gregory built the place himself—two rooms, a wood stove, even a little sauna. We furnished it, planted a garden. At forty-six, we thought we’d earned some peace. Life was finally ours to enjoy.
Then our son, Oliver, announced he was marrying at twenty-three. His fiancée, Eleanor, came from money—law degree, private education. Her parents had a mansion in Surrey, luxury cars, a thriving business. Naturally, Eleanor wanted the works—a posh wedding, a honeymoon, and… her own flat.
We’d always felt guilty about Oliver. His childhood was spent in childcare, after-school clubs—while we worked. We compensated with gifts: toys, clothes, holidays, tutors. For his eighteenth, we bought him a second-hand but reliable car. Paid his tuition, too. And now, we couldn’t say no. We handed over our savings for the wedding and… gave him our flat, moving to the cottage full-time.
Eleanor’s parents took a different approach—designer dresses, gold jewellery, lavish furnishings. At first, Oliver was grateful. But the calls grew fewer. Visits dropped from fortnightly to monthly, then stopped altogether.
Then, at the farmers’ market, an old neighbour mentioned casually, *”Oh, didn’t you know your flat’s being let? Oliver and Eleanor live with her parents—apparently, it’s more ‘their standard.’”*
Gregory went pale, swaying on his feet. We called Oliver straight away. His voice was ice. *”You gave me the flat. Eleanor won’t live in your ‘peasant hut,’ and renting elsewhere’s too pricey. Let the tenants cover it.”*
When we tried talking about trust, decency, he snapped. *”I grew up poor! Other kids had proper parents—mine were glorified civil servants! I’m sick of being embarrassed in front of my in-laws!”*
We didn’t sue. Just went to the flat, explained the situation to the tenants—decent folk, who moved out within a month.
Now we’re home again. No contact with Oliver. Gregory’s heartbroken. So am I. Yes, we gave him everything—no strings, just love. And now? Empty hands, shattered hearts.
Maybe time will make him see. Maybe not. But this much I know: never sacrifice everything for those who don’t value it.
