When my son and his wife decided to sell the countryside cottage Id gifted them, my heart shattered.
When my son, Oliver, first told me he was getting married, I was over the moon. Since becoming a widow three years earlier, loneliness had weighed on me like a sack of potatoes. Living in a quiet village in the Cotswolds, Id 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 hoped, and now, their choice to sell the house I gave them is the final straw that broke the camels back.
From the start, my relationship with Emily, my daughter-in-law, was prickly. I tried not to meddle, though her ways often baffled me. Their flat in Manchester was always in chaosshe tidied only when absolutely forced. I bit my tongue, dreading arguments, but inside, I worried for Oliver. What stung even more was her refusal to cook. My son survived on ready meals and pricey takeaways. It was clear he carried the household alone while she blew her modest salary on spa days and new outfits. Still, I kept quiet to keep the peace.
To support Oliver, I often invited him round for dinner after work. Id whip up proper home-cooked mealsroast dinners, shepherds pie, treacle puddinghoping to remind him of a cosy, loving home. Once, before Emilys birthday, I offered to help them cook. *”No need,”* she cut in. *”Weve booked a fancy restaurant. Im not spending my evening slaving over a stove like some housemaid.”* Her words cut deep. *”In my day, we did things properly,”* I muttered. *”And restaurants cost a fortune…”* She snapped back: *”Stop counting our pennies! Were not asking you for anythingwe earn our own way!”* I swallowed my tears, but her scorn left a bruise.
Years passed. Emily had two childrenmy precious grandchildren, Sophie and William. But their upbringing horrified me. Spoiled rotten, they never heard the word *no*. They stayed up late, glued to their screens, with no notion of tidiness. I never dared speak up, terrified of pushing them away. My silence was my shield, but it gnawed at me day after day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Oliver dropped a bombshell I still havent recovered from. Theyre selling the countryside cottage I gave them just last year. That little haven, tucked among pines and silver birches by a lake, was our familys heart. My late husband, Henry, adored it. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch and the garden where cherry blossoms bloomed. After he passed, I still visited for a while, but keeping it up became too much. With a heavy heart, I gifted it to Oliver, certain theyd spend summers there as a familythat the kids would grow up swimming in the lakes clear waters.
But Emily wanted none of it. *”No proper plumbing, no hot waterthats not a holiday,”* she declared. *”Wed rather go to the Costa del Sol!”* Oliver backed her up: *”Mum, honestly, its not our scene. Well sell it and go to Greece instead.”* Fury choked me. *”And your fathers memory?”* I whispered. *”I thought youd all love it there together…”* But my son just shrugged. *”Were not into it. Just not our thing.”*
My heart split in two. That cottage wasnt just bricks and landit was our memories, Henrys laughter, his dream of our grandchildren loving it as we had. Now theyd flog it like a second-hand sofa for a week in the sun. I feel betrayedby my son, and by my own naivety. I put up with everything in silence to keep the peace, and now I see: my quietness let them forget what mattered. And this pain? I dont think itll ever fade.
