It breaks my heart that my son no longer wants anything to do with me. His wife has torn our relationship to shreds, and now I’m left picking up the pieces.
How painful it is to admit—even to myself—that my only child has turned away from me. After a lifetime of sacrifice, putting everything into raising him, here I am, alone. Was I too strict? Too forgiving? Did I love him so fiercely that it smothered him? I’ll never know.
I raised him single-handedly. Men came and went, but none stuck around for the right reasons. Some wanted my money, others wanted a shoulder to cry on, and the rest just fancied a free ride. I carried the load myself, working nonstop through the lean years of the 90s, skimping on food and clothes just so he’d never go without.
Then I met a married man—yes, judge me if you must—but he was the one who gave my son a leg up. Worked in oil, got my boy a job there too. The pay wasn’t much, but it arrived when we needed it most. Money wasn’t the point—it was having someone in his corner.
He finished college, but with no experience, doors stayed shut. Factory work didn’t suit him—he wanted to earn, not just grind. I backed him every step, sure he’d make something of himself. I poured every last penny into his dreams, hoping he wouldn’t lose his way.
Then he brought *her* home. Pretty but empty-headed, childish beyond her years. But if he was happy, who was I to argue? A pregnancy, a wedding, and for a fleeting moment, hope. I dreamed of being a grandmother, giddy as a schoolgirl. I even arranged their wedding.
A friend chipped in for the rings. I told the bride, “Pick something sensible—this budget covers both of you.” She chose a ring three times the price, leaving him with nothing. From that moment, I was the villain. All because I set a boundary.
I kept quiet. Bought them a car so he could work extra shifts. Thought I was making life easier. Then everything unraveled. The baby was colicky, never slept. He worked round the clock, useless at home. Her parents nagged: “What kind of father is he?” “What kind of husband?” They sold the car. Income dropped. Then—divorce. He started drinking. Lost his license. Everything fell apart.
I pulled him up, forced him back on his feet. He found his stride, even started a business—but it’s in my name. Bailiffs, debts, loans—he’s in deep. And yes, he gambled. Tried to win it all back. Failed. Again, I stepped in, paid his staff, kept the business afloat. Anything for his success.
When money returned, so did she. They’re back together, but now he avoids me. Everything’s in my name, yet I’m the outsider. They rent a place, live their own life. She never calls, never writes. My granddaughter is spoiled, bored by everything. And my son? Suddenly, “Grandma should help.” They only reach out when they need something.
Then he dropped the bomb: “Quit your job. I need help.” So I did. Now I sit without wages, waiting for scraps toward groceries—if he remembers. He gave me a car but won’t cover insurance. Takes it back, returns it on a whim. When I finally drove it, it broke down. Turns out it was faulty all along. Terrifying.
I even took out a loan for *his* car. At first, he paid. Now? Silence. Calls go unanswered. The house we once shared is split with his ex-wife. No invites for Christmas, no birthdays. I’m only summoned when they need a babysitter for their café outings.
Last week, I visited him at work—he shouted at me in front of everyone. Said I embarrassed him. Why? I don’t drink. I was in the Writers’ Guild. Spent my life lifting him up. All I wanted was to see my son.
Now I’m blocked. Can’t even call. I cry myself to sleep, wondering where I went wrong. After everything I gave—this is my reward. Still, I beg forgiveness: “If I ever said the wrong thing, I’m sorry.” But they don’t answer.
All I ask myself is: *What did I do? Why doesn’t my son want me anymore?* And that question—that’s the sharpest pain of all.
