An Apartment for Our Son, but on One Condition: I Must Marry Him Again
My name is Margaret, and Im sixty years old, living in Bath. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine the past would return to my life with such audacity, twenty years after complete silence. And the cruelest part? The one who brought it back was my own son.
At twenty-five, I was madly in love. Edwardtall, charming, full of laughterwas everything I dreamed of. We married quickly, and a year later, our son Oliver was born. The early years were like a fairy tale. We lived in a modest flat, building dreams together. I worked as a primary school teacher; he was an engineer. Nothing seemed capable of shattering our happiness.
But as time passed, Edward changed. Late nights returned, lies piled up, distance grew. I tried to ignore the rumours, to turn a blind eye to the unfamiliar perfume on his clothes. Then, one day, it became undeniable: he was cheating. Not just once. Friends, neighbours, even my parentsthey all knew. Yet I clung to hope, desperate to save our familyfor Olivers sake. I endured far too long, waiting for him to come to his senses. But one sleepless night, when he never came home, I realised I could take no more.
I packed my things, took five-year-old Oliver by the hand, and left for my mothers. Edward didnt even try to stop us. A month later, he moved abroadsupposedly for work. Soon, he found another woman and erased us from his life. No letters. No calls. Complete indifference. I was alone. My mother passed, then my father. Oliver and I faced the world togetherschool plays, hospital visits, graduations. I worked tirelessly to give him everything. There was no time for my own life. He was my world.
When Oliver got into the University of Manchester, I did all I couldcare packages, money, endless support. But a flat? That was beyond my means. He never complained. “Ill manage,” he said. I was so proud.
Last month, he visited with news: he was getting married. My joy vanished the moment I saw his unease. He avoided my eyes before finally confessing:
“Mum I need your help. Its about Dad.”
My blood ran cold. Hed reconnected with Edward, who was back in England, offering him the keys to a two-bedroom flatinherited from his grandmother. But there was a condition. I had to marry Edward againand let him move into my home.
The room spun. My own son couldnt be serious. He pressed on:
“Youre lonely Youve got no one. Why not try again? For me. For my future family. Dads changed”
I retreated to the kitchen, hands shaking as I filled the kettle. Twenty years. Twenty years of silence, of struggle. Now, he waltzed back with a *proposition*?
Returning, I met Olivers desperate gaze and replied, calm but firm:
“No. I wont do it.”
He explodedshouting, accusing. I was selfish. Id robbed him of a father. Now I was ruining his future. I let the words cut deep, because he didnt knowthe nights I worked double shifts, the wedding ring I sold to buy his winter coat, the meals I skipped so he could have meat.
But Im not lonely. My life has been hard, but honourable. I have my job, my books, my garden, my friends. I dont need a man who discarded me, now crawling backnot for love, but convenience.
Oliver left without a goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt. I understandhe wants security. But I wont trade my dignity for square footage. The price is too high.
Maybe one day hell see that. Maybe not soon. But Ill wait. Because I love himtruly, without conditions or flats or *ifs*. He was born from love. Raised with love. And I wont let that love become a bargaining chip.
As for Edward? Let the past stay buried. Thats where he belongs.
