When my son and his wife decided to sell the countryside cottage Id gifted them, it shattered my heart.
The day my son, Thomas, told me he was getting married, I was over the moon. Since losing my husband three years earlier, loneliness had weighed on me like a dead weight. Living in a quiet village in the Cotswolds, Id dreamed of bonding with my future daughter-in-law, helping raise their children, and finding warmth in family again. But nothing went as Id hoped, and now, their choice to sell the home I gave them feels like the final straw.
From the start, my relationship with Emily, my daughter-in-law, was strained. I tried not to interfere, though her ways often puzzled me. Their flat in Manchester was always a messshe only tidied up grudgingly. I bit my tongue, dreading arguments, but deep down, I worried for Thomas. What pained me more was her refusal to cook. My son survived on ready meals or pricey takeaways. I watched him shoulder the household burdens alone while she spent her modest wages on spas and clothes. Still, I kept quiet to avoid trouble.
To support Thomas, I often invited him for dinner after work. Id make proper home-cooked mealsroast beef, shepherds pie, apple crumblehoping to remind him of a cosy home. Once, before Emilys birthday, I offered to help them cook. *”No need,”* she cut in. *”Weve booked a restaurant. I dont fancy spending my evening slaving over a stove.”* Her words stung. *”In my day, we did things ourselves,”* I muttered. *”And restaurants cost a fortune”* She snapped, *”Dont count our money! We earn our keepwe dont ask you for anything!”* I swallowed my tears, but her scorn cut deep.
Years passed. Emily had two childrenmy cherished grandchildren, Sophie and Oliver. But their upbringing dismayed me. Spoiled rotten, they never heard *no*. They stayed up late, glued to their screens, with no sense of discipline. I never spoke up, fearing theyd push me away. My silence was my shield, but it ate at me day by day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Thomas dealt me a blow Ill never recover from. Theyve decided to sell the cottage I gave them just a year ago. That retreat, tucked among pines and birches near a lake, was the heart of our family. My late husband, William, adored it. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch and the garden where cherry blossoms bloomed. After he passed, I still visited, but keeping it up became too much. With a heavy heart, I handed it to Thomas, sure theyd spend summers there, that the children would grow up swimming in the clear lake.
But Emily wanted none of it. *”No proper plumbing, no running waterthats not a holiday,”* she said. *”Wed rather go to the Costa del Sol!”* Thomas backed her: *”Mum, honestly, its not our thing. Well sell it and go to Majorca instead.”* Rage choked me. *”And your fathers memory?”* I whispered. *”I thought youd all love it there”* But my son just shrugged. *”We dont fancy it. Not our cup of tea.”*
My heart split in two. That cottage wasnt just landit was our memories, Williams laughter, his dream of our grandchildren loving it as we had. 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, but now I see: my silence let them forget what mattered. And this pain, I fear, will never fade.
