My son is so subservient to his wife that he only meets me in secret.
I, Margaret Elizabeth, raised my son, William, alone. Perhaps I am to blame for his dependence on his wife, but the realisation tears at my heart. My childhood friend, Beatrice, once told me plainly: “You smothered him too much.” Her words stung, but they made me think. Now I live in a quiet village near York, scarcely seeing my son or granddaughter, because his wife, Victoria, has completely dominated him, and I have become a stranger in their lives.
William was born long after I had forgotten his father, with whom I had lived in an unwed partnership for four years. My own father, a prosperous businessman, bought me a flat after I left school to ensure my independence. In my youth, that flat was the centre of gatherings, but everything changed when I met William’s father. Love seemed eternal, yet the pregnancy came as a shock. I never doubted whether to keep the child—I had already dreamed of holding him in my arms. His father tried to win me back, but I pulled away. We parted before the birth. My parents urged me to stay with him for the boy’s sake, but I insisted, “I will be both mother and father to him.” My father sighed and said, “So be it.”
When William was seven, my father passed. Until then, we wanted for nothing—toys, clothes, holidays—my son had it all. He never threw tantrums, and friends would ask, “How did you raise such a calm child with so much?” I’d reply proudly, “I simply love him. He is my only man.” Little did I know then that my “only man” would grow up and choose another woman, pushing me aside. I poured myself into his schooling, his future. To keep him from active military service, I arranged for him to serve in a garrison unit, and every day I brought him meals, just to see him smile.
After his service, William went to university, where in his third year he met Victoria. The moment I saw her, my heart clenched. She was beautiful, but her gaze—commanding, cold—struck fear in me. I knew at once: this girl would bend him to her will. And so she did. He became her shadow, catering to her every whim, spending all his wages on gifts, crafting surprises just to please her. Victoria never openly manipulated him; she simply allowed him to love her, and he dissolved into her. Our conversations dwindled to his awestruck praises of her. I saw I was losing him but swallowed the hurt, forcing politeness with my daughter-in-law.
Before the wedding, Victoria made her demands clear: the celebration must be lavish. I spent nearly all my savings to indulge her. Yet it wasn’t enough—I signed my flat over to William and moved in with my mother. That decision was my undoing. Upon learning the deed was in his name alone, Victoria flew into a rage. The next day, William rushed to a solicitor and added her name to the property. I felt the ground vanish beneath me—my sacrifice meant nothing to her. From then on, Victoria harboured resentment, and I became unwelcome in the home that once was mine.
When their daughter, Alice, was born, things worsened. Victoria had William entirely under her thumb: he worked, provided, obeyed her every command at home. She invented excuses to keep me from Alice. “She’s allergic to your cats,” she declared. “You bring fur on your clothes—it harms her.” Absurd, yet William believed it. He wouldn’t meet my eyes when he asked me not to visit. “I’ll come by sometimes,” he muttered. His words cut like a blade. My son, the boy I raised, had become a stranger, obedient to a wife who walled him off from me.
Now William sneaks to see me like a thief. We talk for half an hour of trivial things, his eyes darting away, before he hurries off, afraid of angering Victoria. I hardly see Alice—only at school plays or her ballet recitals, under Victoria’s stern watch, forbidden even to embrace her. My granddaughter’s eyes already mirror her mother’s cold gaze, and it terrifies me. My heart aches—I am losing not just my son, but my grandchild too.
I long to mend this, yet I do not know how. Victoria has built a wall I cannot breach. William, my boy, is her puppet, and I am an inconvenience. Beatrice was right—I coddled him, and now he cannot stand against her. But how to undo this without shattering his family? Each furtive visit is a fresh wound, a reminder of what I’ve lost. I live with this pain, yearning to hold Alice, to speak openly with William, but Victoria stands between us like an impassable barrier. And I fear this rift may never heal.
