I went to visit my son, and he put me up in a hotel!
In a quiet village by the River Thames, where the air smells of blooming gardens, my husband and I live in a spacious home that’s always open to guests. We keep a cozy spare room, and if there aren’t enough beds, we’ll gladly give up our own—anything to make sure everyone’s comfortable. That’s just how we were raised: feed them, warm them, put them to sleep. Our door is never shut to family and friends.
Over the years, we’ve raised three children. Our eldest, Emily, lives nearby in a small town. We see her almost every week, and her husband, a real gentleman, never hesitates to lend a hand around the house. I couldn’t have asked for a better son-in-law.
Our youngest, Sophie, is studying in London. She’s chasing her career dreams, and I support her—there’s time for children later, but youth slips away fast. She calls often, sharing updates, and I know she’ll always make time for us.
Then there’s our son, Thomas. He moved far away—to Yorkshire. After university, he and a friend started a business, and now that’s all he cares about. He has a wife, Victoria, and a six-year-old boy, my darling grandson James. But I never got on with my daughter-in-law. Victoria’s from a different world—cold, distant, never satisfied. She thinks our village is dull, and she’s even turned James against visiting. Last time they came, they barely lasted two days before she complained she “couldn’t breathe here.” Thomas visits alone sometimes, just to avoid arguments.
This year, my husband had time off, so we decided to visit our son. We’d never been to his place before, and we were eager to see how he lived. Of course, we gave him plenty of notice—we didn’t want to drop in unannounced.
Thomas met us at the station with a smile. To my surprise, Victoria had laid out a modest but decent lunch. We chatted, laughed, and I started to wonder if things weren’t so bad after all. But when evening came, my heart sank. Thomas told us we’d be staying in a hotel. I thought I’d misheard. A hotel? His own parents, coming all this way, and he’s shipping us off like strangers?
By eight, he’d called a cab and taken us to some dingy little room—cold, damp, the bed creaking, the smell of mildew in the air. My husband and I just sat there, stunned that our own son would do this to us. I’d have slept on their floor—I didn’t need luxury! But Victoria had made it clear: there was no room for us in their home.
Morning came, and we went hungry—no kitchen in that place, and the local café was too expensive. We called Thomas, and he told us to come over for breakfast. We spent the whole day in their flat while he and Victoria were at work. Little James kept us company with stories, but inside, we felt hollow. Another dinner, then back to the hotel. By the third day, we’d had enough—cut our trip short, took the train home, and left before their “hospitality” could stretch any further.
Back home, I confided in Emily, who was furious. She called her brother straight away and gave him a piece of her mind. As for me? I just sat and cried. How could my own son, the boy I raised with so much love, treat me like this? Now he won’t even call, won’t apologize—acts like nothing happened.
A neighbor heard about it and shrugged. “That’s just how young people are these days, Margaret. They want their space. At least he paid for the room.” But to me, that’s no excuse. Our house has always been full of loved ones—yes, sometimes sleeping on air mattresses or the sofa, but together, like a family. This? A hotel, like we were strangers.
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. But the hurt runs deep. My girls would never do this to me. Did I really raise a son who’s forgotten what home means? How am I supposed to live with that?
