So I went to visit my son, and he put me up in a hotel!
In our little village by the River Thames, where the air smells of apple blossoms and freshly cut grass, my husband and I live in a cozy home where the door’s always open. We’ve got a spare room for guests, and if there’s ever not enough space, we’d gladly give up our own bed—because that’s just how we were raised. Feed, shelter, make sure everyone’s comfortable. That’s what family does.
We’ve got three kids. Our eldest, Emily, lives just a short drive away in the next town. We see her almost every week, and her husband’s an absolute gem—always helping out around the house, mowing the lawn, fixing things. Couldn’t ask for better.
Our youngest, Sophie, is off at uni in Manchester, chasing her dreams. I tell her—career first, kids can wait. She calls often, staying close even when she’s busy.
Then there’s our son, James. He moved all the way to Norfolk after uni, started a business with a mate, and now he’s wrapped up in work. He’s got a wife, Charlotte, and a six-year-old son, my sweet little grandson Oliver. But Charlotte? Well, we never clicked. She’s posh, reserved, never seems happy. Thinks our village is “dull” and even discourages Oliver from visiting. Last time they came, they lasted two days before she complained she was “suffocating.” James visits alone sometimes, just to avoid the arguments.
This year, my husband had some time off, so we decided to finally visit James. We’d never been to his place before, and we were excited to see how he’d settled in. Of course, we called ahead—didn’t want to just turn up unannounced.
James met us at the station with a smile. Charlotte, surprisingly, had laid out tea—nothing fancy, but still. We chatted, laughed, and for a moment, I thought maybe things weren’t so bad. Then evening came, and my heart sank. James said we’d be staying at a hotel. A *hotel?* His own parents? He might as well have slapped me.
By eight, he’d called a cab and dropped us off at some dingy place—damp walls, creaky bed, that musty smell in the corner. My husband and I just sat there, stunned. I’d have slept on their floor happily! But no. Charlotte had made it clear—their home wasn’t ours to share.
Next morning, we woke up starving. No kitchen at the hotel, and the café nearby cost a fortune. We rang James, and he told us to come over for breakfast. Spent the whole day in their flat while he and Charlotte were at work. Oliver kept us smiling with his stories, but it still felt empty.
Same routine for days—meals at theirs, then back to the hotel. On the third day, we’d had enough. Changed our train tickets and left early.
Back home, I told Emily everything. She was furious—called James right away and gave him an earful. Me? I just cried. How could my boy, the one I raised with so much love, do this to me? He hasn’t even called to apologise.
Our neighbour, when she heard, just shrugged. “That’s how young people are these days, love. They value their space. At least he paid for the room.” But that’s no excuse. Our home’s always been full—sleeping on airbeds, sofas, wherever, but *together*. Now I’m shoved in some hotel like a stranger.
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. But it *hurts*. My girls would never do this to me. Did I raise a son who’s forgotten what family means? How am I supposed to live with that?
