Many years ago, my son and his wife made a decision that shattered my heartthey chose to sell the country house I had given them as a gift.
When my son, Edward, first told me of his engagement, my heart swelled with happiness. Since becoming a widow three years earlier, loneliness had weighed upon me like a heavy cloak. Living in a quiet village in the Cotswolds, I had dreamt of growing close to my future daughter-in-law, of helping to raise their children, of feeling the warmth of family once more. Yet nothing unfolded as I had hoped, and now, their choice to sell that very house I had gifted them feels like the final blowone that has broken me entirely.
From the start, my relationship with my daughter-in-law, Eleanor, was strained. I took care not to intrude on their lives, though her ways often puzzled me. Their flat in Manchester was always in disarrayshe tidied only when absolutely necessary. I held my tongue, fearing conflict, but inwardly, I worried for Edward. What pained me most was her refusal to cook. My son survived on ready-made meals or expensive takeaways. I could see the burden of their home fell on him alone, while she spent her modest earnings on salons and new dresses. Still, I bit my lip to keep the peace.
To support Edward, I often invited him for supper after work. I prepared home-cooked dishesroast dinners, shepherds pies, apple crumbleshoping to remind him of the comfort of a proper family meal. Once, before Eleanors birthday, I offered to help them cook. *”Theres no need,”* she cut in sharply. *”Weve booked a restaurant. Ive no intention of spending my evening slaving over a stove like some housemaid.”* Her words stung. *”In my day, we made everything ourselves,”* I murmured. *”And restaurants are so costly…”* She snapped back, *”Dont tally our money! We dont ask you for anythingwe earn our own way!”* I swallowed my tears, but her contempt wounded me deeply.
Years passed. Eleanor bore two childrenmy beloved grandchildren, Beatrice and Oliver. Yet their upbringing dismayed me. They were spoiled, never hearing the word *no*. They stayed up late, eyes glued to their screens, knowing nothing of discipline. I dared not speak my mind, afraid of pushing them away. My silence was my shield, but it gnawed at my soul, day after day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Edward dealt me a blow from which I may never recover. They had decided to sell the country house I had given them just the year before. That retreat, nestled among oaks and willows by a quiet lake, had been the heart of our family. My husband, Henry, had adored it. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch and the garden where roses bloomed. After his passing, I returned for a few more years, but my strength waned, and I could no longer manage it. With great sorrow, I gave it to Edward, certain they would spend summers there as a family, that the children would grow up breathing fresh air, swimming in the clear waters of the lake.
But Eleanor wanted none of it. *”No proper plumbing, no running waterits hardly a holiday,”* she declared. *”Wed rather go to the south of France!”* Edward agreed. *”Honestly, Mum, its not for us. Well sell it and take the children to Greece instead.”* Anger choked me. *”What of your fathers memory?”* I whispered. *”I thought youd want to go there together…”* But my son only shrugged. *”Weve no interest in it. Its just not our sort of thing.”*
My heart tore in two. That house was not just bricks and landit held our memories, Henrys laughter, his dreams of our grandchildren loving it as we had. Now, they would sell it like an old piece of furniture, all for a few days in the sun. I feel betrayedby my son, and by my own foolish hope. I endured in silence to keep peace, and now I see the truth: my silence let them forget what truly mattered. And this pain, I fear, will never fade.
