My son rented out our flat without even bothering to tell us. We gave him everything, and now we’ve been left with nothing.
My husband William and I got married when we were both twenty-three. I was already pregnant, but luckily, we’d both finished our degrees at uni. Our families weren’t well-off—no “silver spoon” for us, no influential relatives or savings. From day one, we had to work our fingers to the bone just to get by.
I barely took maternity leave. I didn’t produce enough milk—maybe from stress, maybe from barely eating—so we switched our son to formula early. By eleven months, we’d put him in nursery. They taught him to use a spoon, a potty, and to fall asleep without being rocked. Meanwhile, William and I threw ourselves into work—first renting a flat, then moving into a tiny bedsit, then saving up for a one-bed, and finally buying a two-bed in a decent part of town.
A few years ago, we bought a plot in the Cotswolds. William built a cosy little cottage himself—two rooms, a wood-burning stove, even a sauna. We brought in furniture, planted a vegetable patch. Finally, it felt like we could breathe. We’re only 46, after all—still a whole life ahead of us.
But then our son, Oliver, decided to get married at 23. His fiancée, Eleanor, came from money—they’d met at law school. Her parents were loaded: three-storey house in Surrey, luxury cars, their own business. Naturally, their daughter wanted a fancy reception, a limo, a honeymoon… and a flat of her own.
William and I always felt guilty about Oliver. His childhood was spent in nurseries, schools, after-school clubs—because we were always working. We tried making up for it with gifts: toys, clothes, holidays, tutors. For his eighteenth, we gave him an old but reliable car. When he went to uni, we paid his tuition. And of course, we couldn’t say no this time. We handed over our savings for the wedding… and gave him our flat, moving out to the cottage.
Eleanor’s parents had a different approach—they spoiled her: designer coats, jewellery, fancy furniture. At first, Oliver was grateful, but slowly, he changed. His calls became fewer—weekly, then monthly. Then, nothing.
One day, we ran into our old neighbour at the market, and she casually mentioned,
“You didn’t know your flat’s being rented out, did you? Oliver and Eleanor are living with her parents—apparently, it’s nicer there.”
William went pale. He nearly staggered on his feet. We called Oliver straight away, only to hear him say coldly,
“You gave me the flat. My wife doesn’t want to live in your ‘old-fashioned’ place, and renting somewhere else is expensive. At least the tenants pay us.”
When we tried talking about trust and decency, he shouted,
“I grew up poor! Other kids had proper parents, and I got you—teachers who never shut up about morals! I’m sick of being embarrassed in front of my in-laws because my parents are just ordinary civil servants!”
After that, we took action. We didn’t sue—just went to the flat, explained everything to the tenants. They were decent people and moved out within a month.
We’re back in our home now. We don’t speak to Oliver. William’s taken it hard, and so have I. Yes, we gave him everything—no strings, just love. And we’ve been left with empty hands and broken hearts.
Maybe one day he’ll understand. Maybe not. But one thing’s certain: never sacrifice everything for someone who doesn’t know how to value it.
