**Diary Entry**
When my son, William, told me he was getting married, my heart swelled with happiness. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness had weighed on me like an anchor. Living in a quiet village in the Cotswolds, I dreamed of bonding with my future daughter-in-law, helping raise their children, and feeling the warmth of family again. But nothing went as Id hopedand now, their decision to sell the countryside house I gave them has broken my heart.
From the start, my relationship with Emily, Williams wife, was strained. I never interfered, though her ways often puzzled me. Their flat in Manchester was always a messshe tidied only grudgingly. I bit my tongue, afraid of stirring trouble, but inside, I worried for William. What stung more was her refusal to cook. My son lived off takeaways or expensive meals out. He carried the burden of the household while she spent her modest salary on spas and clothes. Still, I kept quiet to avoid arguments.
To support him, I often invited him for dinner after work. Id make shepherds pie, roast dinners, and apple crumbleshoping to remind him of a proper home. Once, before Emilys birthday, I offered to help them cook. *No need,* she cut in. *Weve booked a restaurant. I wont spend my evening slaving in the kitchen like some housemaid.* Her words cut deep. *In my day, we did things properly,* I muttered. *And restaurants cost so much* She snapped, *Dont count our money! We earn our own way!* I swallowed my tears, but her scorn left a wound that never healed.
Years passed. Emily had two childrenmy precious grandchildren, Charlotte and Oliver. But their upbringing dismayed me. Spoiled rotten, they never heard *no*. They stayed up late, glued to their screens, clueless about discipline. I never spoke up, afraid of pushing them away. My silence was my shield, yet it gnawed at me day after day.
Then, weeks ago, William dealt the final blow. Theyre selling the countryside house I gifted them last year. That cottage, nestled among oaks and wildflowers near a lake, was our familys heart. My late husband, Henry, adored it. We spent summers there, tending the vegetable patch and the garden where roses bloomed. After he passed, I still visited, but keeping it up became too much. With a heavy heart, I gave it to William, certain theyd spend summers there, that the children would grow up swimming in the lakes clear waters.
But Emily wanted none of it. *No proper plumbing, no Wi-Fiits not a holiday,* she scoffed. *Wed rather go to the Costa del Sol.* William shrugged. *Mum, honestly, its not our thing. Well sell it and go to Portugal.* Rage choked me. *And your fathers memory?* I whispered. *I thought youd all love it there* But he just sighed. *We dont. Its not for us.*
My heart shattered. That house wasnt just landit held our memories, Henrys laughter, his dream of our grandchildren loving it as we did. Now theyll sell it like old furniture for a week in the sun. I feel betrayedby my son, and by my own naivety. I endured in silence to keep the peace, and now I see: my silence let them forget what mattered. And this pain, I fear, will never fade.
