My son suggested I move to the cottage. I refused—but helped with money instead.
I am a mother of two grown sons. The eldest married long ago and lives in another county, visiting only once or twice a year. But my youngest, Benedict—well, he has always been my comfort and my concern. All my life, I worked for him: I pulled him through university, supported him financially while he found his footing, and rejoiced when, at last, things began to fall into place. By twenty-seven, Benedict had secured a position at a respected technology firm with a decent salary, and my two-bedroom flat in London suited us perfectly—we lived in harmony.
Then he brought home Emily, his sweetheart. I didn’t object—quite the opposite. She seemed gentle and kind. But when, a few months later, he announced their plans to marry, I felt a flicker of unease. It wasn’t Emily—it was Benedict. He had never truly learned to endure hardship, never fought for his own comfort. He expected ease, as though life owed it to him.
They married. At first, they rented a flat nearby, and I kept my distance—bringing meals now and then, helping only when asked. Six months in, Benedict arrived at my doorstep with a solemn expression.
“Mum,” he said, “Emily and I have been thinking. We need to save faster for a deposit on a mortgage. Half our wages go to rent. Would you consider staying at the cottage for a while? Just until we’ve put enough aside. You could move back the moment we’ve secured our own place.”
I went still. The cottage was a modest little thing in the countryside—no heating, damp walls, an hour and a half by train to the city. I taught at a school. Waking at dawn to catch the first train, shivering through winter—it was no life. But more than that, I understood: if I agreed, nothing would go as promised.
I knew my son. Comfort settled into his bones like old habit. Once he and Emily made themselves at home in my warm, well-appointed flat, the urgency of saving would fade. Promises or not, they would linger. Comfort is a snare. If he stopped striving, stopped growing, let him drift—who would answer for that?
I did not want to live in the cottage. Nor did I wish to indulge another’s idleness, even if he was my own dear boy. I had fought my way forward my whole life, earned every comfort I had. Why should I surrender my health, my peace, for another’s ease?
The next day, I spoke plainly. “No, I won’t leave. But I will help. I’ll pay a portion of your rent so you can save. The flat stays mine.”
He took it badly. Very badly. Neither he nor Emily rings now, nor visits, nor invites me over. We scarcely speak, and the silence aches. I never wanted estrangement. But I know—I did right. I didn’t make his life harder. I refused to let him run from it. That matters more than temporary harmony.
One day, he will see I didn’t refuse him. I protected him—and myself, and what lies between us. A parent’s love isn’t measured in concessions alone. Sometimes, it is a firm “no” when the child would choose the easier road.
