My son and his wife have decided to sell the countryside house I gave them, shattering my heart.
When my son, Oliver, told me he was getting married, joy flooded my heart. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness had weighed on me like a burden. Living in a small village in the Cotswolds, I dreamed of bonding with my future daughter-in-law, helping raise their children, and feeling the warmth of family again. But nothing turned out as I hoped, and now, their choice to sell the house I gifted them is the final straw.
From the start, my relationship with my daughter-in-law, Emily, was strained. I tried not to interfere, though her ways often puzzled me. Their flat in Manchester was always untidyshe only cleaned grudgingly. I bit my tongue, dreading arguments, but deep down, I worried for Oliver. What hurt more was her refusal to cook. My son survived on ready meals or expensive takeaways. I saw him carrying the weight of their home alone while she spent her modest salary on beauty salons and clothes. Still, I held back to keep the peace.
To support Oliver, I often invited him for dinner after work. I made home-cooked mealsroasts, shepherds pies, apple crumbleshoping to remind him of a loving household. 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 cut deep. *”In my day, we did things ourselves,”* I murmured. *”Restaurants cost so much…”* She snapped back, *”Dont count our money! We earn our keepwe dont ask you for anything!”* I swallowed my tears, but her disdain wounded me to the core.
Years passed. Emily gave birth to two childrenmy beloved grandchildren, Sophie and James. But their upbringing dismayed me. They were spoiled, never hearing *no*. They stayed up late, glued to their screens, with no sense of discipline. I never dared speak up, fearing Id push them away. My silence was my shield, but it ate at me day after day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Oliver struck a blow I still cant recover from. They decided to sell the countryside house I gave them a year ago. That retreat, nestled among pines and birches near a lake, was the heart of our family. My late husband, Henry, adored it. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch and the garden where cherry trees bloomed. After he passed, I still visited for a few years, but I no longer had the strength to maintain it. With a heavy heart, I gave it to Oliver, certain theyd spend summers there as a family, that the children would grow up swimming in the lakes clear waters.
But Emily didnt want it. *”No proper plumbing, no running waterits not a holiday,”* she said. *”Wed rather go to Cornwall!”* Oliver backed her up: *”Mum, honestly, its not our thing. Well sell it and go to Spain.”* Anger choked me. *”What about your fathers memory?”* I whispered. *”I thought youd all love it there…”* But my son just shrugged. *”Were not interested. Its not our style.”*
My heart tore apart. That house wasnt just landit was our memories, Henrys laughter, his dream of our grandchildren loving it as we did. Now, theyd sell it like old furniture for a few sunny days abroad. I feel betrayedby my son, and by my own naivety. I endured in silence to keep harmony, but now I see: my silence made them forget what truly matters. And this pain, I fear, will never fade.
