Throughout my life, my son was a buddy and source of support. But we didn’t know each other after the wedding.
I never thought that someone else could have such a profound impact on my child. Alex, my only son, was always a golden boy—courteous, generous, and willing to lend a hand. He was raised in this manner and has stayed that way as an adult. Before he got married, we were inseparable; we visited one other frequently, spoke for hours about everything, shared our joys and sorrows, and supported one another. Naturally, within appropriate bounds—I didn’t overly meddle in his affairs. But when Emma entered his life, everything went apart.
At their wedding, Emma and Alex received a gift from her parents—a one-bedroom flat in the heart of London, freshly renovated. It became their own little nest. I never visited them there, but my son showed me photos on his phone: bright walls, new furniture, cozy. After my husband passed away, I was left with no savings, so I decided to give the young couple almost all my jewelry—gold chains, rings, earrings that I had been collecting for years. I told Emma, “If you want to melt them down, I don’t mind.” I wanted to do something good for them, support them as they started their life together.
But Emma… She showed her true self right away. A woman with a sharp character. I noticed how she peeked into the envelopes with money they received as wedding gifts—curious about how much there was. It made me uneasy. On one hand, such determination could make her a good wife, but on the other hand, one had to be cautious with her. Modern women often see their husbands as wallets, spend their money like it’s their own, and then divorce, take half, and look for new prey. I don’t wish such a fate for Alex, but this worry gnaws at me.
Six months after the wedding, Emma declared that she didn’t want children just yet. Not now, she said, with their cramped flat, it wasn’t possible. She threw up her hands and said, “What can we do? I don’t want to take out a mortgage, and I don’t know when we’ll be able to afford a bigger place. Alex isn’t a big boss yet.” She was thinking out loud, but I heard calculation in her voice. I live in a house that my late husband started building. It stands unfinished, with holes in the walls. In winter, it’s as cold as a refrigerator—my pension isn’t enough to heat the whole place. And then Emma suggested, “Sell the house, buy yourself a small flat, and give us the rest for a new place. Then we can think about having kids.”
Can you see what that means? She wants me, old and weak, to move into a tiny cell so they can take the best of everything. And later, who knows, they might even take that small flat away from me and send me to a care home. At first, I thought of agreeing—if only they would help me with money once a month. But now? No way! With someone like Emma, you have to be on guard—you never know what to expect.
After that conversation, Alex visited me a few times. He hinted that the idea wasn’t so bad: “Why do you need such a big house? It’d be easier in a flat, the bills would be lower.” I stood my ground: “The city is growing, in 5-10 years the properties will be worth more. My land is no longer the outskirts, selling now would be foolish.” Once, I suggested swapping. They could move into my house, and I’d take their flat. After all, it’s the same, right? But Emma balked. She didn’t like that the house needed repairs and investment while I would live care-free in their gifted flat. She needs comfort, even if my option is more beneficial. She’s like that—and there’s nothing you can do about it.
Then I fell ill. Seriously, to the bone. I lay in bed, unable to get up—fever, cough, pounding headache. I called Alex, begged him to come, bring food and medicine. I knew the young couple had little time, but I couldn’t even manage to make tea. I used to imagine he would drop everything and rush to me. But now? He showed up only the next day. He made me some powdered “Theraflu,” tossed a pack of aspirin on the table—without a box, probably expired—shrugged, and left. Thank goodness a friend saved me—brought soup, medicine, everything I needed. But what if she hadn’t been there? What then?
My son was my light, my support my entire life. I trusted him implicitly—he was not just a son, but a friend, a part of me. But the wedding erased it all. We became strangers, and I’m powerless to change it. He is my only child, my love, my pride, but now I see: his heart is no longer with me. He chose her. Emma stood between us like a wall, and I remain on the other side—alone, abandoned, unnecessary. My mind says the bond that was is broken. It’s his time to choose—a mother or a wife. And the choice is clear as day. Yet my heart still hopes that he will remember what I was to him and come back. But each day, this hope fades like snow under a foreign sun.