My son is so submissive to his wife that he only meets me in secret.
I, Eleanor Whitmore, raised my son, Oliver, alone. Perhaps it’s my own fault he grew so dependent on his wife, but the thought tears my heart apart. My childhood friend, Margaret, told me bluntly, “You coddled him too much.” Her words stung, but they made me think. Now I live in a small town near York, barely seeing my son or granddaughter because his wife, Victoria, has taken complete control, leaving me a stranger in their lives.
Oliver was born long after I forgot about his father—a man I’d lived with for four years in a common-law marriage. My own father, a successful businessman, bought me a flat after school so I’d feel independent. In my youth, that flat was the heart of every party, but everything changed when I met him. Love felt eternal, but the pregnancy was a shock. There was never any question—I already dreamed of holding my child. His father tried to win me back, but I pushed him away. We split before the birth. My parents begged me to reconcile for the boy’s sake, but I insisted, “I’ll be both mother and father to him.” My father just sighed and said, “Your life.”
When Oliver was seven, my father passed. Until then, we wanted for nothing—toys, clothes, holidays, my boy had it all. He never threw tantrums, and my friends would marvel, “How did you raise such a calm child with so much?” I’d answer proudly, “I just love him. He’s my only man.” I never imagined my “only man” would grow up and choose another woman, pushing me aside. I poured myself into his schooling, his career. To keep him from the army, I pulled strings at the recruitment office, so he “served” in a clerical unit. Every day, I brought him meals just to see him smile.
After service, Oliver went to university, where in his third year, he met Victoria. The moment I saw her, my chest tightened. She was beautiful, but her gaze—cold, domineering—sent a chill through me. I knew right away: this girl would rule him. And she did. He became her shadow, catering to every whim, spending his wages on gifts, inventing surprises to please her. Victoria didn’t manipulate him outright—she just let him love her, and he dissolved into her. Our talks dwindled to his breathless tales of her. I felt him slipping away but swallowed my grief, forcing politeness with my soon-to-be daughter-in-law.
Before the wedding, Victoria made her demands: the celebration must be lavish. I drained nearly all my savings to indulge her. But it wasn’t enough—I signed my flat over to Oliver and moved in with my mother. That was my mistake. When Victoria learned the deed bore only his name, she exploded. The next day, Oliver rushed to the solicitor and added both their names. The ground fell away beneath me—my sacrifice meant nothing. From then on, Victoria held a grudge, and I was no longer welcome in the home that once was mine.
When their daughter, Lily, was born, things worsened. Victoria had Oliver wrapped around her finger: he worked, provided, obeyed every command at home. She invented excuses to keep me from Lily. “She’s allergic to your cats,” she declared. “You bring fur on your clothes—it harms her.” It was absurd, but Oliver believed it. He wouldn’t meet my eyes when he asked me not to visit. “I’ll drop by sometimes,” he muttered. His words cut like a blade. The boy I’d raised was gone, replaced by a puppet dancing to his wife’s tune.
Now Oliver sneaks over like a thief. We talk for half an hour—empty chat, his eyes darting away—before he flees, terrified of being late for Victoria. I hardly see Lily, just at school plays or ballet recitals, under my daughter-in-law’s icy stare, never allowed to hug her. My granddaughter’s eyes are starting to mirror her mother’s coldness, and it frightens me. My heart aches—I’m losing not just my son, but her too.
I want to fix this, but how? Victoria built a wall I can’t break. Oliver, my little boy, is her marionette, and I’m a ghost in their lives. Margaret was right—I smothered him, and now he can’t defy her. But how do I mend this without wrecking his family? Every furtive visit is salt in the wound, a reminder of what I’ve lost. I live with this pain, dreaming of holding Lily, of talking openly with Oliver. But Victoria stands between us, unmovable. And I fear this rift will never heal.
