An apartment for my son, but on one condition: I must remarry him
My name is Anne, Im sixty and I live in Tours. I never could have imagined that after everything Id endured, the past would slam back into my life with such arrogance and cynicism, twenty years after an absolute silence. The most painful part is that the one who triggered this return is none other than my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I was head over heels in love. Philippetall, charming, jovialwas the embodiment of my dream. We married quickly, and a year later our son Paul was born. The early years felt like a fairytale. We occupied a tiny flat, dreamed together and built plans. I taught schoolchildren, he worked as an engineer. Nothing seemed capable of shattering our happiness.
Yet, as time went on, Philippe changed. He began to come home later and later, told lies, drifted away. I tried to ignore the rumors, to look the other way at his late returns and the scent of foreign perfume. Eventually, the truth became unavoidable: he was cheating. Not just once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbours, even my parents all knew. And I clung to the idea of saving our familyfor Pauls sake. I endured far too long, hoping he would mend his ways. One night I woke up to find he hadnt returned, and I realised I could no longer bear it.
I gathered my things, took fiveyearold Paul by the hand, and went to my mothers house. Philippe didnt even try to stop us. A month later he left for abroadsupposedly for work. He soon found another woman and pretended we had never existed. No letters, no calls. Complete indifference. I was left alone. My mother died, then my father. Paul and I faced everything togetherschool, activities, illnesses, joys, graduations. I worked tirelessly so he would never lack anything. I had no personal life; there was simply no time. He was everything to me.
When Paul entered the University of Lyon, I supported him as best I couldsending packages, giving money, offering encouragement. Buying an apartment, however, was beyond my means; the finances werent there. He never complained, saying he would manage. I was proud of him.
Last month he returned with news: he had decided to marry. The happiness was brief. He seemed nervous, avoided my gaze, then said:
Mom I need your help. Its about Dad.
I was stunned. He explained that he had recently reestablished contact with Philippe. His father had come back to France and was offering him the keys to a tworoom flat that had belonged to his grandmother. But there was a catch: I had to marry him again and let him move into my apartment.
My breath caught. I stared at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He continued:
Youre alone you have no one. Why not try once more? For me. For my future family. Dad has changed
I slipped into the kitchen in silence, kettle steaming, tea in hand, my hands trembling. Everything seemed hazy. Twenty years of carrying everything alone. Twenty years while he never cared about us. And now he returns with a proposal.
Back in the living room I answered calmly:
No. I will not accept.
Paul erupted, shouting, accusing me of thinking only of myself, blaming me for his lack of a father, claiming I was now ruining his life again. I stayed silent, because each of his words tore at my heart. He didnt know the sleepless nights of exhaustion, how I had sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, how I sacrificed everything so he could eat meat while I went hungry.
I am not alone. My life has been hard but honest. I have a job, books, a garden, friends. I do not need a man who betrayed me and returns not out of love but for convenience.
My son left without saying goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt. I understand him. He wants whats best for himselfjust as I once wanted for him. But I cannot sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too steep.
Perhaps he will understand one day. Maybe not soon. Yet I will wait, because I love himtruly, without conditions, without apartments, without ifs. I gave him life out of love and raised him with love. I will not allow that love to become a commodity.
As for my exhusband let him stay in the past. His place is there.
A Flat for Our Son, but There’s a Catch: I Must Marry Him Again!
