**Diary Entry**
I never imagined it would come to this.
My husband and I parted ways when my youngest was just four, and the eldest, ten. Left alone with two boys, I had no time to think of remarrying—every spare moment went into raising them, working double shifts, keeping the household afloat. My mother was my only support—she took them to school, fed them, did whatever she could so I could keep going.
I’m proud of the men they’ve become. Both handsome, clever, well-educated. The eldest married long ago, building his own life up north with his wife’s family. But it was the youngest I pinned my hopes on—we were closer in every way.
When he started university, I made a desperate choice—left for Germany to earn more. Cleaned homes, scrubbed floors, cared for the elderly. Every penny I saved wasn’t for me—it was for them. Because who else would do it?
When he said he wanted to marry, I was thrilled. I’d only met his girl a handful of times—quiet, polite, sweet. I didn’t realise how well she could wear a mask.
I gave them everything. Bought them the flat I’d slaved for, sleeping in cold rooms, hauling buckets. Paid for their dream wedding—the dress, the reception, even the videographer. The eldest never complained—he understood. He had his own path, his own home to build. But the youngest was nearby. I dreamed of babysitting grandchildren, Sunday roasts together, feeling needed.
Life, of course, has a way of cutting deep.
A few weeks after the wedding, I dropped by with groceries, just to see how they were settling in. I didn’t expect fanfare—just warmth. But…
My daughter-in-law greeted me like I was a tax inspector. Sat me down with tea, then folded her hands.
*”Margaret,”* she said, voice like chilled steel, *”Let’s agree—we’ll only see each other on holidays. It’s better for everyone. Fewer misunderstandings, fewer fights. It’ll keep the peace.”*
I nearly dropped my cup.
*”Excuse me?”*
*”You understand, don’t you? It’s for the best.”*
I sat there, numb. The girl I’d handed a home, whose wedding I’d paid for, was now dictating when I was *allowed* to visit.
Before the wedding, she’d been all smiles, as if afraid I’d see through her. Now, with everything secured, the mask slipped.
But the worst part? My son said nothing. Not a word in my defence. No *”Mum, you’re always welcome.”* Just silence, like it didn’t concern him.
I left with shaking hands. Sat on the bus fighting tears. I worked like a dog my whole life—not for me, for *them*. All I wanted was to be near them. To be a grandmother. To still matter.
The eldest called later. *”Mum, you don’t deserve this. I’m furious with him—with both of them. You’re not alone.”*
He’s right. But it doesn’t ease the sting. I never asked for money, never demanded they rearrange their lives. Just love. Just respect.
Now I sit in my empty flat, wondering—do I play along, smile at Christmas? Or do I walk away?
I don’t feel like a mother anymore. I feel like a stranger. In the home *I* bought. In the family *I* helped build.
