My son was my friend and support all my life. But after he got married, we became strangers.
I never imagined my child could change so much under someone else’s influence. My only son, Alex, was always a golden boy—polite, kind, always ready to help. He grew up that way and stayed that way as an adult. Until he got married, we were inseparable: we often saw each other, spent hours talking about everything under the sun, shared troubles and joys, and supported each other. Of course, within reasonable limits—I didn’t intrude into his life excessively. But everything fell apart when she came into his life—Mary.
At the wedding, Mary and Alex received a gift from her parents—a one-bedroom flat in the heart of London, freshly renovated. It became their property, their little nest. I never visited them, but my son showed me pictures on his phone: bright walls, new furniture, cozy. After my husband’s death, I was left with nothing in savings, so I decided to give the young couple almost all of my jewelry—gold chains, rings, earrings that I had collected over the years. I told Mary, “If you want to melt it down, I don’t mind.” I wanted to do something good for them, support them as they started out.
But Mary… She showed her true self immediately. A woman with a sharp character. I noticed how she peeked into the envelopes of money they received as wedding gifts—her curiosity about the amount was telling. This raised a red flag for me. On one hand, such savvy could make her a good wife, but on the other—it was clear you had to be cautious around her. Modern women often see their husbands as walking wallets, spend their money as if it’s their own, and then divorce them, taking half, and look for new prey. I don’t wish such a fate for Alex, but this anxiety eats away at me.
Six months after the wedding, Mary announced she didn’t want children just yet. “It’s impossible in our tiny flat,” she said, shrugging. “What can we do? I don’t want to take out a loan, and who knows when we’ll earn enough for a bigger place. Alex hasn’t become a big boss yet.” She spoke it aloud, but I heard calculation in her voice. I live in a house my late husband started building. It stands incomplete, with holes in the walls. In winter, it’s as cold as a glacier—I can’t afford to heat the whole place on my pension. Then Mary proposed, “Sell your house, buy a small flat for yourself, and give us the rest for a new apartment. Then we might think about children.”
Do you see what this means? She wants me, old and frail, to move into a box, so they can have the best of everything. And then, who knows, they might take that flat away from me too, sending me off to a home for the elderly. At first, I considered agreeing—if they would help me financially once a month. But now? Never! With someone like Mary, you have to be on your guard—you never know what deceit she might pull.
After that conversation, Alex visited me a few times. He hinted that her idea wasn’t so bad: “Why do you need such a big house? It would be easier in a flat, utilities would be cheaper.” I stood my ground: “The city is growing, in 5-10 years the house prices will rise. My land isn’t an outskirt anymore; selling now would be foolish.” One time I suggested: let’s swap. They move into my house, and I take their flat. It’s the same thing, right? But Mary was against it. She didn’t like the idea of having to repair and invest while I lived carefree in their gifted flat. She wants convenience, even if my option is more advantageous. That’s just the way she is, and there’s no changing it.
Then I fell ill. Seriously, to the bone. I lay in bed, unable to get up—fever, cough, splitting headache. I called Alex, begging him to come by, bring food, medicine. I knew the young couple had little time, but I couldn’t even muster the strength to brew tea. In the past, I never doubted he’d drop whatever he was doing and rush over. Now? He showed up the next day. Made me some instant “Lemsip,” tossed a pack of aspirin on the table—seemingly expired without a box—shrugged, and left. Thank goodness my friend saved me—brought soup, meds, everything I needed. What would I have done without her?
My son was my light, my support all my life. I trusted him implicitly—he was more than a son; he was a friend, a part of me. But the marriage erased all of that. We became estranged, and I’m powerless to change it. He is my only child, my love, my pride, but now I see: his heart is no longer with me. He chose her. Mary has come between us like a wall, and I’m left on the other side—alone, abandoned, forgotten. Logic tells me: the bond we had is broken. It’s his turn to choose—mother or wife. And the choice is clear as day. Yet my heart still hopes he’ll remember what I meant to him and return. But with each day, that hope melts away like snow under a foreign sun.
