A Flat for Our Son, But on One Condition: I Must Remarry Him
My name is Emily Hartwell, and I am sixty years old, living in Canterbury. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that after all these years, the past would return with such shameless boldnesstwenty years of silence shattered in the cruelest way. And the worst of it? The one who dragged it back into the light was my own son.
At twenty-five, I was hopelessly in love. Henrytall, charming, full of laughterwas everything I dreamed of. We married quickly, and a year later, our son Oliver was born. Those early years were like something from a fairy tale. We lived in a tiny flat, dreaming together, building a future. I was a schoolteacher; he was an engineer. Nothing could touch our happiness.
But over time, Henry changed. He came home later, told lies, grew distant. I tried to ignore the whispers, pretended not to smell the unfamiliar perfume on his coat. Until the day I couldnt anymore: he was cheating. Not once, but openly. Friends, neighbours, even my own parentsthey all knew. And I clung to our family, for Olivers sake. I endured too long, waiting for sense to return. Then one night, I woke to find his side of the bed empty, and I knew it was over.
I packed my things, took five-year-old Oliver by the hand, and went to my mothers. Henry didnt try to stop us. A month later, he left the countrysupposedly for work. Soon, he found another woman and erased us from his life. No letters, no calls. Absolute indifference. I was alone. My mother passed, then my father. Oliver and I faced it all together: school, illness, triumphs, graduations. I worked myself to the bone so hed want for nothing. I had no life of my ownno time. He was my world.
When Oliver got into Oxford, I helped as I couldcare packages, money, advice. But buying a flat? Impossible. He never complained. Said hed manage. I was so proud.
Last month, he visited with news: he was getting married. The joy didnt last. He fidgeted, avoided my eyes. Then it came:
“Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.”
The air left my lungs. Hed reconnected with Henry, whod returned to England, offering him the keys to a two-bed flat inherited from his grandmother. But there was a condition: I had to marry Henry again and let him move into my home.
I couldnt breathe. My sonwas he serious? He kept talking.
“Youre alone Youve no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future. Dads changed”
I walked to the kitchen, silent. The kettle, the tea, my shaking hands. Everything blurred. Twenty years carrying it all alone. Twenty years without a word from him. And now thisthis *offer*.
I returned and said, quietly, “No. I wont do it.”
Oliver exploded. Yelling, blaming. Said I was selfish. That it was my fault he grew up without a father. That I was ruining his life again. I stayed silent. Every word cut deeper. He didnt know about the nights I lay awake exhausted. How Id sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat. How I skipped meals so he could have meat on his plate.
Im not lonely. My lifes been hard, but honest. I have my work, my books, my garden, my friends. I dont need a man who betrayed me, crawling back not for love, but convenience.
Oliver left without a goodbye. He hasnt called. I know hes hurt. I understand. He wants whats bestjust as I once did. But I wont sell my self-respect for a few square metres. The price is too high.
Maybe hell see that one day. Maybe not soon. But Ill wait. Because I love himtruly, without conditions, without flats, without *ifs*. I brought him into this world with love. Raised him with love. And I wont let that love become a bargaining chip.
As for my ex-husband? He belongs in the past. Thats where hell stay.
