I’m spending the holidays with my former daughter-in-law instead of my son’s new wife—and I won’t apologise for it.
I recently turned sixty. Retirement, aching legs, weariness from life and people—it’s the same as for many women who carried everything on their shoulders alone, without help, without a man’s support. In my prime, I was a hairdresser—not the easiest job, especially when you’re on your feet all day, forcing a smile. These days, my health isn’t what it was, so I work sparingly, mostly for friends and acquaintances.
My husband hasn’t been in my life for years. We divorced soon after our son was born—my ex turned out to be a useless, lazy man who did nothing but smoke indoors and drink with his mates. He acted like he was “too good to work,” yet had no trouble living off me. I left him without regret, finally breathing freely—I felt lighter. Since then, I’ve done everything myself. Alone. And I raised my son alone.
I did my best for him. Tried to be both mother and father. Yes, I made mistakes—there was never enough time for heart-to-hearts. I worked myself into the ground. When he grew up and joined the army, I thought, *Maybe now his life will take a different path.*
Then he came home. Brought a girl with him—humble, warm, always smiling. Emily. They married a few months later. I welcomed her gladly, even let them stay with me at first. We became close, honestly. Never argued. We cooked together, watched films in the evenings, talked about everything from recipes to books. It was easy with her—like having a daughter I’d never had.
Later, they moved out. Had a son—my first grandchild. Emily refused to sit idle, so she got a job. My son did well for himself, even started his own business. I was happy—it had all worked out.
When I needed surgery, Emily took me to a private clinic without a word and covered the bill. Not a hint of resentment. Just—help. I’ll never forget that.
Then, after nine years of marriage—divorce. James, my son, walked out. Just packed his things and left. Said he’d fallen for someone else. Emily fought for their marriage, but he was ice. Later, she admitted she’d learned he’d had a mistress for two years. I couldn’t believe it.
When he first brought his new girlfriend round, I was horrified. Vulgar, rude, with the manners of a market trader. Every other word a swear, lips like inflated rubber, eyes empty. I tried to talk sense into him: “Are you sure this is the woman you want to build a life with?” He brushed me off. They weren’t marrying—his new love “hated celebrations.”
I said nothing. He’s not eighteen; his choice is his own. But something inside me broke. Emily and I stayed in touch. She visited with my grandson, called, brought soups and fruit like before. Our bond hadn’t frayed. But with James? It all faded. As if he’d been erased from my life. Or erased himself.
I stopped expecting him for holidays. Because I knew—he wouldn’t come alone. And I don’t want that woman in my home. Don’t want to hear her shrieking into her phone at my table. Don’t want my grandson hearing how she “talks.”
So at Christmas, Easter, birthdays—it’s Emily who comes. With my grandson. We set the table, drink tea, reminisce. We laugh. And I’m content. I don’t have to invite pain into my life, even if it’s my son’s choice.
Recently, James called, wanting to visit. I said no. Straight out: “Not with her. Come alone. But you won’t.” He hung up. Silence since.
And I’m not hurt. I’ve lived a hard life. I know who stood by me when I needed it most. And I won’t betray the one who never betrayed me.
I spend the holidays with my former daughter-in-law. Because she’s closer to me now than my own son. And no, I’m not ashamed.
