“Mum, we need to talk.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Irene said, eyeing her son suspiciously.
Handsome, clever—he’d always been a good lad, never gave her much trouble. But then, in his final year of sixth form, he fell in love for the first time. Started skipping classes, grades slipped. She tried to talk sense into him. Turned out the girl didn’t feel the same—fancied some other bloke whose parents were loaded.
No matter how much Irene tried to tell him that first love wasn’t about money, that the girl just fancied someone else, he wouldn’t listen. He’d convinced himself that if only he had cash, a flash car, she’d choose him instead.
He took it so hard she actually worried he might do something stupid. She found him a therapist—someone who could talk to him, man to man. It worked. He passed his A-levels, got into uni. And, of course, fell in love again.
By the end of first year, he announced that loads of students lived on their own—so why shouldn’t he? He wanted to rent a flat, be independent.
“How exactly will you pay for it, then? Rent’s steep. I can’t help you—you know what I earn. You’re eighteen, and your dad’s stopped child support. Unless you’re planning to drop out, go part-time?”
“I talked to Dad. He said he’d help out at first.”
“You spoke to him? Saw him? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You’d have talked me out of it. You divorced him, not me,” Oliver shot back.
“And when we split, he changed jobs straight away—made sure his wages were officially lower so he could pay less maintenance. So really, he walked out on you too.”
“You sure he won’t mess you about? I doubt he’s doing this out of the goodness of his heart. He’ll give you a couple months’ rent, then find some excuse to stop. What then? He’s got another kid now—Maisie. Or is Sophie’s family chipping in?”
Mum’s intuition told her he was holding something back. Pressed him until he caved.
“I told Sophie it’s my flat—inherited it from Gran, Dad’s mum. That we wouldn’t have to pay rent.”
“So you lied?”
“She hasn’t told her parents we’re moving in together. They’re strict. They send her money every month—should be enough.”
“Right, so she’s lying too? Scared to tell them, but fine living off someone else’s cash? Let me guess—you told her your dad’s loaded so she wouldn’t pick someone richer? But the truth always comes out. Then what?”
“I said what I had to, Mum. Girls don’t pick blokes like me unless there’s money involved. By the time I’ve got any, I’ll be old.”
“You shouldn’t start your life on lies. Tell her the truth. If she loves you, she’ll—”
“Enough. I’ve made up my mind. Wish I hadn’t told you at all. We’re not getting married—if it doesn’t work, we’ll split. You’re making this a big deal.”
Irene didn’t sleep that night. Next morning, she tried again—but he snapped at her, stormed off without breakfast. When she got home from work, some of his things were gone. She was gutted—never thought her Ollie, her sensitive boy, would leave like that. No goodbye.
She rang him that night. Could barely hear over the music in the background—probably some celebration. He half-apologised, said he was scared she’d cry and beg him to stay. She tried to take comfort in that.
Struggling, she rang her mates for advice. One said she was being clingy—needed to let him grow up. The other had a husband who’d never let their daughter move out young.
Her own mum said it was her fault—spoilt him, gave him everything. “Should’ve remarried if you’d bothered dressing nice.”
They weren’t wrong. She blamed herself too. But what else could she do? She’d sacrifice anything for him.
Soon, Oliver started dropping by when she was at work—she’d notice missing food, clothes. Then, one weekend, he turned up. Her heart sank the second she saw him—gaunt, worn-out shirt. She fed him; he ate like he was starving.
She packed him whatever food she had, didn’t ask questions. But he talked anyway. Just as she’d guessed—his dad stopped paying rent.
“Mum… Gran lives alone. Maybe you could move in with her? Free up one of the flats for us?”
“She’d throttle you for calling her old—she’s only 65. But this isn’t just about money, is it?”
“No. Sophie’s pregnant.”
“Did you not use protection?”
“She reckons the pill’s bad for you. I already spoke to Gran—she’s fine with it.”
“Oh, brilliant. Again, everyone else knows first. Which flat do you want?”
Anger boiled in her—but she kept calm.
Sophie wanted Gran’s place—too small, apparently. “You and Gran would be better off together.”
Irene bit her tongue. She wanted to scream, shake sense into him. Instead, she said she’d think about it.
When she rang Gran, she wasn’t thrilled—but agreed. Made it clear she wasn’t giving up her telly or big room. Irene would get the box room she’d had as a teen.
She moved in, resentful but resigned. At least now Oliver couldn’t take anything else from her.
Then it hit her—Sophie’s parents. Why were they oblivious? She asked a copper mate to dig around. Turned out Sophie’s dad was a drunk; her mum had remarried. Neither cared.
Months later, Sophie had the baby—a girl, Emily. They’d married last-minute. Irene visited, shocked by the mess. But she didn’t lift a finger—let them cope.
Oliver kept coming over—thin, exhausted. The baby was colicky; he and Sophie fought non-stop.
Then, one day: “We’re divorcing. She says she’ll keep Em unless I agree to sell the flat.”
“No. You wanted independence—sort it yourself. And don’t try anything clever—I’ve got mates in the force.”
He left furious, blaming her for everything.
For once, she didn’t feel guilty. Unconditional love had nearly ruined her. She’d finally learned—giving everything doesn’t make them happy. It just leaves you with nothing.
