It breaks my heart that my son wants nothing more to do with me—my daughter-in-law tore our bond to pieces.
How cruel it is to admit—even to myself—that my only child has turned away. That I lived my life for him, sacrificing so much, only to end up alone. Where did I go wrong? Was I too stern? Too forgiving? Did I love him to my own ruin?
I raised him alone. There were men in my life, but they brought nothing but trouble. Some sought profit, others escape, and a few only cared for my wages. I carried everything myself. The ’90s were no time for tears—I worked myself ragged just to keep food on the table and his schooling paid. I went without, saving every penny for him.
Then, by chance, I met a married man. Judge me if you will, but he was the one who set my son on his path. He worked in the oil fields and got my boy a job there. The pay was modest, but it came when we needed it most. It wasn’t about the money—it was the support.
My son finished trade school, then university, but without experience, no one would hire him. He toiled at a factory, miserable, longing to earn rather than just labour. I backed him in everything, believing one day he’d have his own business. I poured in my last shilling just to keep him steady.
Then he brought *her* home. Pretty, but empty-headed. Foolish, spoiled beyond her years. But if he chose her, so be it. A pregnancy, a wedding, hopes rekindled. I dreamed of being a grandmother, giddy as a schoolgirl. I even arranged the wedding myself.
An old friend helped—gave money for the rings. I told my daughter-in-law, “Pick something sensible. This is for both of you.” She chose a ring three times the price, uncaring that it left her husband without one. From that moment, I was her enemy—simply for setting a boundary.
I stayed silent. Bought them a car so my son could earn extra after shifts. Thought I’d eased their burden. Then it all unravelled. The baby was colicky, screaming through the night. My son worked day and night, unable to help. Her parents sneered, “What kind of father is he? What kind of husband?” They sold the car. Income vanished. Then divorce. He drank. Lost his licence. Everything collapsed.
I pulled him back up. Made him stand again. He found his feet, even started his own business—but it’s all in my name. Bailiffs hounded him over debts, unpaid loans. And yes, he gambled, chasing a windfall. It never came. Again, I stepped in, paid his workers, kept the business afloat. Just so he’d succeed.
When money returned—so did *she*. They reunited. But now, he avoids me. Everything’s in my name, yet I’m an outsider. They rent a flat, live apart. She never calls, never writes. My granddaughter is petulant, uninterested in anything. And my son says, “Grandmothers should help.” I never refuse when they ask—but they only ask when they need something.
Then he told me, “Quit your job, I need you.” I resigned. Now I sit without wages, waiting for him to spare anything for groceries. Often, he doesn’t. He gave me a car—but won’t cover the insurance. Takes it back, returns it on a whim. When I drove it myself, it broke down—faulty all along. I’m terrified.
I even took out a loan for his car. At first, he paid it. Now? Silence. My calls go unanswered. The house we lived in? He split it with his ex-wife long ago. Now he doesn’t invite me for Christmas, nor birthdays. I only come when they need a babysitter for their café outings.
Recently, I visited him at work—he shouted at me. Said I embarrassed him. Why? I don’t drink. I was in the Writers’ Guild. I’ve given him everything. I just wanted to see my son.
Now they’ve blocked me. Can’t even call. I cry at night, lost. After all I gave, this is my thanks. Still, I beg forgiveness: “If I ever spoke wrong, forgive me.” They say nothing.
Where did I fail? What did I do? Why does my son want nothing to do with me? That question—worse than any pain.
