**A Mother’s Dilemma: Loyalty Divided**
*From the diary of Eleanor Whitmore*
*June 12th, 2024*
*”Eleanor, why do you keep interfering?” my friends murmur. “She’s nothing to you now. He’ll remarry, and neither he nor your grandson will remember you. You’re just wasting your nerves and your pennies.”*
*But I can’t help it. I feel ashamed—ashamed that I raised my son without a father’s influence, and now I’m paying for what I failed to give him: a conscience.*
*My son, Oliver, married seven years ago. His wife, Gemma, had come to our town in Yorkshire to study. They moved in together almost immediately, renting a flat, building their little life. Gemma and I never quite warmed to each other. We never argued outright, but there was always an invisible wall between us.*
*I stayed out of it. Worked from dawn till dusk—retirement was still years away. I visited when invited and occasionally dropped by unannounced.*
*Two years later, their son, Alfie, was born. The little family carried on in that rented flat, dreaming of a mortgage. But as soon as Alfie started nursery, the arguments began.*
*Oliver swore to me there was no other woman. But a mother knows when something’s amiss. Sure enough, once Alfie settled into school, my son filed for divorce.*
*”Mum, don’t make it into a tragedy. I’ll pay child support. Milly’s pregnant now—that’s my family. Gemma can sort herself out. She can move back to her parents—cleaner air up in the Lakes,” he said, avoiding my eyes.*
*We fought bitterly. Gemma refused to leave—there were no jobs or decent schools in her village near Windermere. And her parents weren’t exactly welcoming. She started searching for a room to rent because she couldn’t afford the flat alone.*
*I kept in touch. When my niece passed down her son’s outgrown clothes, I offered to bring them over—Alfie needed to try them on. I arrived at lunchtime, just as Gemma was feeding him. She offered me a bowl of soup.*
*”I don’t like broth without meat,” Alfie mumbled. “Mum didn’t buy any chicken ’cause rent’s due.”*
*Gemma turned to the window and wept silently.*
*I couldn’t bear it. I asked to take Alfie out for a walk. Bought groceries, sweets. On the way back, I remembered my own childhood, eating watery stew at my grandmother’s after the war. Back then, it was scarcity—now, just a father’s indifference.*
*From that day, I slipped her money when I could. Oliver didn’t know—until Alfie accidentally let it slip.*
*”Nice one, Mum! Can’t even buy your granddaughter a bike, but you’re paying their rent?” he snapped.*
*”Would you rather your son slept in a train station?” I shot back. “You walked away, and she’s struggling alone. I’m ashamed of you. This is my penance—to soften your cruelty.”*
*”So you’ve chosen a stranger over your own son?”*
*Fine. Let him think that. But Alfie isn’t a stranger. And as long as I breathe, he won’t go hungry—even if his father never understands.*
