“It breaks my heart that my son has cut me out of his life”: my daughter-in-law tore my family apart
Ladies, it pains me even to write these words, but I can no longer keep this inside. My son—the only child I carried, raised, and nurtured—now acts as though I don’t exist. And all of this began when she came into his life—his wife, my daughter-in-law. To this day, I don’t understand what I did wrong. Where did I misstep? How could my own flesh and blood turn his back on me so coldly?
I raised my son alone. There were men in my life, but none were right—some took advantage of my kindness, others simply vanished. Perhaps it’s my nature, or maybe I longed for love so desperately that I mistook empty gestures for it. In the ’90s, I worked myself to the bone, slaving at multiple jobs, skimping on everything just so my son could have a decent life. I pressed on, ignoring exhaustion, sacrificing sleep, never sparing myself a moment’s rest.
Then a man came into our lives—a lifeline. Married, yes. But he helped. Most importantly, he secured my son a job at an oil company. He wasn’t perfect, but he offered both emotional and financial support when no one else would. Because of him, my son became an engineer—graduated from technical college, then university, completed his training, and found steady work. I always believed in him, even when he dreamed of running his own business rather than settling for a factory wage. I gave him money, even when I could barely afford bread for myself.
Then he brought home a girl. Pretty, but rather dim, or so she seemed to me at the time. She fell pregnant quickly. I rejoiced—I’d have a granddaughter! I helped arrange their wedding. A friend of mine gave them the money for rings, and that’s when I first felt uneasy. She chose a ring far beyond their budget, not consulting anyone. I gently suggested they pick something modest, matching for both. The look she gave me was pure venom. From that moment, I became her enemy.
I stayed silent. Endured it. I even bought them a car so my son could earn extra after shifts. Then everything fell apart. They sold the car, money grew tight. Her parents started whispering: *What kind of man can’t provide for his family?* Soon after—divorce. My son turned to drink, lost his license. I dragged him back from the brink, stood by him. His business took off. And as soon as money returned—so did she. And he let her come back. While he began avoiding me.
The business is in my name—debts forced it. He repays slowly, in fragments. Then he took to gambling, chasing a win that might restore everything—his wife, his family, his stability. Again, I gave him money—for staff, for rent, for the business. He swore it would all work out. I believed him. Then he demanded more—that I quit my job to help him. I obeyed, gave everything. Now I sit waiting, hoping to be remembered. Often, I’m not. I can’t even afford presents for my granddaughter. They only call when they need something.
He gave me a car—sleek, new. But I can’t afford petrol, can’t insure it. Sometimes he takes it, returns it broken. Once, when I needed to rush somewhere, it wouldn’t start. And I’m still paying off the loan for his last car—in my name. At first, he covered it, then stopped. And what do I do? Stay silent. Because I’m his mother.
I signed over part of my flat to them. They don’t invite me for holidays—not Christmas, not birthdays. Once, I visited him at work—he shouted at me. Said I embarrassed him. Why? I don’t drink, I’ve had my writing published, I’ve read books, worked my whole life. I’m not some bitter old woman from the estate.
Sometimes I just apologize—for everything. I don’t even know what for. Just *”Sorry if I ever let you down.”* And now—I’m blocked. Can’t call. Can’t message. Silence surrounds me, and I fear I’m losing my mind to this emptiness. I sit by the window, watch other children walk by, and wonder—what did I do wrong? Why has my son, my whole world, decided I’m no longer needed?
I weep for a pain I cannot voice, cannot bear. I weep because the one who should have been my anchor is now the farthest soul from me. All I have left are memories—and hope. Hope that one day he’ll remember how I held his hand when he was afraid. How I stood by him when the world turned away. And perhaps, just perhaps, he’ll understand—a mother doesn’t betray. A mother simply loves.
