An apartment for my son, but only 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 Ive endured, the past would reappear in my life with such audacity 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 madly in love. Philippetall, charming, jovialwas my dream personified. We married quickly, and a year later our son Paul was born. The first years felt like a fairytale. We lived in a small flat, dreaming together and building plans. I taught school; he worked as an engineer. Nothing seemed capable of shattering our happiness.
But over time Philippe changed. He came home later and later, told lies, drifted away. I tried to ignore the rumors, to turn a blind eye to his late returns and the scent of foreign perfume. Eventually the truth became undeniable: he was cheating. Not just once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbors, even my parents all knew. And I stubbornly clung to saving our familyfor Pauls sake. I endured far too long, hoping he would come to his senses. One night I woke to find he hadnt returned, and I realized I could not go on.
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 abroad, supposedly for work. He soon found another woman and behaved as if we had never existedno letters, no calls, total 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 lack nothing. I had no personal life; I had no time. He was everything to me.
When Paul entered the University of Lyon, I helped however I couldsending parcels, giving money, offering support. Buying an apartment, however, was beyond my means; the finances just werent there. He never complained, saying he would manage. I was proud of him.
Last month he came to see me with news: he had decided to get married. The happiness was shortlived. He seemed nervous, avoiding my gaze, then he blurted out:
Mom I need your help. Its about Dad.
I froze. He told me he had recently reestablished contact with Philippe. His father had returned to France and was offering the keys to a tworoom apartment that his grandmother had left him. But there was a condition: I had to marry him again and let him move into my flat.
My breath caught. I looked 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 retreated to the kitchen, silent. The kettle, the tea, my trembling hands. Everything swirled before my eyes. 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 said calmly:
No. I will not accept.
Paul erupted. He shouted, accused me, saying I had always thought only of myself, that it was my fault he had no father, that now I was ruining his life again. I stayed silent, because each of his words tore at my heart. He didnt know the sleepless, exhausting nights I endured, that I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat, that I deprived myself so he could eat meat instead of me.
I do not feel lonely. 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 a goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know hes hurt. I understand him. He wants the best for himselfjust as I once wanted for him. But I cannot sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too high.
Maybe hell understand someday. Maybe not anytime soon. Ill wait for him, because I love him. A true, unconditional lovewithout apartments, without ifs. I gave him life out of love, and raised him with love. I will not let that love 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!
