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 when we were both twenty-three. I was already pregnant, but luckily, we’d both finished our degrees at the University of Leeds. Our families weren’t well-off—no trust funds, no wealthy relatives, no savings. From day one, we had to work tirelessly just to get by.
I barely took maternity leave. I had no milk—whether from stress or constant exhaustion—so we switched our son to formula early. By eleven months, we’d enrolled him in nursery, where they taught him to use a spoon, a potty, and how to sleep without being rocked. Meanwhile, Gregory and I threw ourselves into work—first renting a flat, then moving into university housing, then saving for a one-bed, and finally buying a two-bed in a nice part of London.
A few years ago, we bought a cottage in the Cotswolds. Gregory built a cosy timber house himself—two bedrooms, a wood burner, even a little sauna. We brought in furniture, planted a garden. Finally, life seemed comfortable. We’re only in our forties, with years ahead of us.
Then our son, Oliver, at twenty-three, decided to marry. His fiancée, Victoria, came from money—they’d met studying law at Oxford. Her parents were well-off: a three-storey country house, luxury cars, a thriving business. Naturally, Victoria wanted a grand wedding—a posh venue, a vintage Rolls-Royce, a Caribbean honeymoon… and her own flat.
Gregory and I always felt guilty about Oliver’s childhood. He was raised more by nursery staff and schoolteachers than by us—we were always working. We tried to make it up to him with gifts: toys, clothes, holidays, tutors. For his eighteenth, we gave him a used but reliable car. When he started university, we paid his tuition. And of course, we couldn’t say no now. We spent our savings on the wedding and… handed over our flat, moving permanently to the cottage.
Victoria’s parents took a different approach—they showered her with designer clothes, jewellery, even furniture. At first, Oliver was grateful, but slowly, he changed. Calls became fewer—once a fortnight, then once a month. Then, nothing.
One day, we bumped into an old neighbour at the farmer’s market, and she casually mentioned, “Didn’t you know? Oliver’s renting out your flat. He and Victoria live with her parents now—says it’s more comfortable there.”
Gregory went pale, swaying on his feet. We called Oliver immediately. His reply was icy: “You gave me the flat. Victoria refuses to live in your ‘shoebox,’ and renting somewhere decent costs a fortune. Let the tenants pay.”
When we tried to talk about trust and decency, he snapped, “I grew up poor! Other kids had actual parents—mine were just teachers who nagged about ‘morals’! I’m sick of feeling embarrassed in front of my in-laws because my parents are just ordinary civil servants!”
After that, we took action. No lawsuits—just a trip to the flat and a conversation with the tenants, who turned out to be decent. A month later, they moved out.
We’re back in our home now. Oliver doesn’t call. Gregory’s heartbroken—so am I. Yes, we gave him everything—no strings, just love. And now, we’re left empty-handed.
Maybe one day, he’ll understand. Maybe not. But I’ve learned this much: never sacrifice everything for someone who won’t value it.
