My son was my friend and my rock all my life, but after his wedding, we became strangers.
My son had always been my friend and my strength. Yet after he married, everything changed.
I never imagined my child could transform so utterly under anothers influence. My only son, William, had been golden-heartedpolite, kind, ever ready to help. That was how he grew up, that was the man he became. Until he married, we were inseparable: meeting often, talking for hours about everything and nothing, sharing sorrows and joys, supporting one another. Of course, within reasonI never overstepped. But it all shattered when *she* entered his lifeEleanor.
For their wedding, Eleanor and William received a gift from his parentsa sleek one-bedroom flat in the heart of London, freshly refurbished. Their own little nest. I was never invited inside, but William showed me photos on his phone: pale walls, new furniture, a cosy glow. After my husbands death, I had barely a penny to my name, so I handed over most of my jewellerygold chains, rings, earrings gathered over the years. I told Eleanor, *Melt them down if you likeI dont mind.* I only wanted to help, to give them a good start.
But Eleanor She showed her true colours quickly. A woman of steelsharp as a blade. I noticed how she rifled through the wedding envelopes stuffed with cash, her hunger to count every pound unsettling. In another time, such thrift mightve made her a fine wife. But these days? Women see husbands as wallets, spend their money freely, then divorce, take half, and hunt anew. I wouldnt wish that fate on William, yet the fear gnaws at me.
Six months in, Eleanor declared she wouldnt have children yet. *Not now,* she said, *not in this tiny flat.* She threw up her hands. *What can we do? I wont take a loan, and who knows when well afford something bigger? William isnt some high-flying CEO.* She mused aloud, but I heard the calculation. Meanwhile, I live in the house my late husband began building. Its unfinished, gaps in the walls, icy drafts in wintermy pension barely covers the heating. Then Eleanor suggested, *Sell your house, buy a studio, and give us the rest for a proper home. Then well think about children.*
Do you see? She wants me, old and weary, crammed into a shoebox while they take the best. And whos to say they wouldnt pinch that too, ship me off to a care home? At first, I nearly agreedif theyd help me monthly. But now? Never. With someone like Eleanor, you must watch your back.
After that, William visited a few times. He floated the idea again, gently: *Why dyou need such a big place? A flat would be simplercheaper bills.* I stood firm: *The citys growing. In five years, this land will be worth double. Selling now would be madness.* Once, I proposed a tradethey could live in my house, and Id take their flat. Same difference, yes? But Eleanor refused. She disliked the repairs needed, the costs, while Id lounge carefree in their gift. She craves comfort, even when sense favours me. Thats her wayand nothing changes it.
Then I fell ill. Terribly sofever, cough, a skull-splitting ache. I rang William, begging him to bring food, medicine. I knew they were busy, but I couldnt even boil water. Once, Id have bet my life hed drop everything. Now? He came the next day. Mixed some Lemsip, left an unboxed packet of aspirin (likely expired), shrugged, and left. Luckily, a friend saved mesoup, proper medicine, everything. Without her? What then?
My son was my light, my anchor. I trusted him utterlymore than a son, a friend, a piece of my soul. But marriage erased it. Were strangers now, and I cant mend it. Hes my only child, my love, my pride, yet his hearts no longer mine. He chose her. Eleanor stands between us like a wall, and Im left on the other sidealone, discarded. My head says the tie is severed. He must choosemother or wife. And the choice is plain as day. Yet my heart still hopes hell remember what I was to him, that hell return. But each day, that hope thins like mist under a foreign sun.
