**Diary Entry**
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, William, and I married when we were both twenty-three. I was already expecting by then, but thankfully, we’d both finished our degrees at the university—teaching, like most in our families. Money was tight from the start—no golden inheritance, no wealthy relatives, just the two of us scraping by.
I barely took maternity leave. Milk never came—stress or poor diet, who knows—so we switched our boy to formula early. By eleven months, he was in nursery, where they taught him to use a spoon, a potty, and sleep without rocking. Meanwhile, William and I threw ourselves into work—first renting a flat, then moving into halls, saving up for a one-bed, and finally buying a two-bed in a decent part of Manchester.
A few years back, we bought a cottage plot in the Cotswolds. William built it himself—two rooms, a wood burner, a little sauna. We brought over furniture, planted a garden. At forty-six, we thought we’d earned some peace.
Then our son, Oliver, at twenty-three, announced his engagement. His fiancée, Eleanor, came from money—both had just graduated from law school. Her parents had a three-storey house in Surrey, luxury cars, a proper business. Naturally, she wanted a grand wedding—a posh reception, a honeymoon, and, of course, her own flat.
We’d always felt guilty about Oliver. His childhood was spent in nurseries, after-school clubs—we were always working. We made up for it with gifts: toys, clothes, trips, tutors. For his eighteenth, we gave him a beaten-up but reliable car. Paid his tuition. So when he asked, how could we refuse? We handed over our savings for the wedding and signed the flat over to him, moving to the cottage ourselves.
Eleanor’s parents had a different approach—they spoiled her: designer clothes, jewellery, furniture. At first, Oliver was grateful. Then the calls grew fewer. Weekly visits turned to monthly, then nothing.
Last week, we ran into an old neighbour at the market. “Didn’t you know?” she said casually. “Your flat’s been rented out. Oliver and Eleanor live with her parents now—much nicer, they say.”
William went pale, swayed on his feet. We rang Oliver at once. His voice was ice. “You gave me the flat. Eleanor won’t live in your ‘retro’ mess, and renting elsewhere costs a fortune. May as well let tenants cover it.”
When we tried talking about trust, decency, he shouted: “I grew up poor! Other kids had proper parents—I got teachers who moralised about everything! I’m sick of being embarrassed in front of my in-laws!”
We didn’t sue. Just went to the flat, spoke to the tenants—they understood, moved out within a month.
Now we’re back home. No contact with Oliver. William’s devastated; so am I. Yes, we gave him everything—unconditionally, out of love. And now we’re left empty-handed and heartsore.
Maybe one day he’ll understand. Maybe not. But this much I know: never sacrifice everything for those who won’t value it.
