Our son rented out our flat without even bothering to tell us. We gave him everything, and in return, we were left with nothing.
My husband, Clive, and I married when we were both twenty-three. I was already expecting, but thankfully, we’d both finished our degrees at the university. Our families weren’t well-off—no “golden spoon,” no connections, no savings. From day one, we had to scrape by just to survive.
I barely took maternity leave. I had no milk—whether from stress or hunger—so we switched our son to formula early. At just eleven months, we sent him to nursery. There, they taught him to use a spoon, a potty, and to sleep without rocking. Meanwhile, Clive and I threw ourselves into work—first renting a flat, then moving into university housing, then saving for a one-bed before finally buying a two-bed in a decent part of town.
A few years ago, we bought a small plot in the countryside. Clive built a neat little wooden cottage himself—two rooms, a wood-burning stove, even a sauna. We brought in furniture, planted a garden. Finally, it felt like life might ease up. We were only forty-six—still so much ahead of us.
But our son, Thomas, decided to marry at twenty-three. His fiancée, Beatrice, came from money—they’d studied law together. Her parents were well-off, with a three-storey home in Kent, luxury cars, businesses. Naturally, Beatrice wanted a fancy reception, a wedding car, a honeymoon… and her own flat.
Clive and I always felt guilty. Thomas spent his childhood in nurseries, schools, after-school clubs—because we were buried in work. We tried to make up for it with gifts: toys, clothes, holidays, tutors. For his eighteenth, we bought him a used but reliable car. When he went to uni, we paid his fees. And of course, we couldn’t say no now. We gave him all our savings for the wedding… and handed over our flat, moving to the cottage ourselves.
Beatrice’s parents had a different approach—they lavished her with a mink coat, jewellery, furniture. Thomas, grateful at first, began to change. The calls grew sparse—once every fortnight, then once a month, then nothing at all.
Then, one day at the market, we ran into our old neighbour, who casually remarked, *”Did you not know your flat’s been let? Thomas and Beatrice are living with her parents—says it’s nicer there.”*
Clive went pale. He swayed on his feet. We called Thomas straight away. His reply was icy. *”You gave me the flat. Beatrice won’t live in your ‘council-house chic,’ and renting somewhere decent costs a fortune. Let the tenants pay.”*
When we tried to talk about trust and decency, he shouted, *”I grew up poor! Other kids had proper parents—I got you! A pair of teachers who drone on about morals! I’m sick of being embarrassed in front of my in-laws because my parents are barely scraping by!”*
After that, we took action. No lawsuits—just went to the flat, spoke to the tenants. They understood and moved out within the month.
We’re back in our home now. No contact with Thomas. Clive’s shattered. So am I. Yes, we gave him everything—no strings, just love. And in return? Empty hands and broken hearts.
Maybe, in time, he’ll understand. Or maybe not. But one thing’s certain: never sacrifice everything for those who don’t know its worth.
