My son and his wife have chosen to put on the market the countryside cottage I had given them, shattering my heart.
When Theo announced his marriage, joy flooded my chest. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness has sat on my shoulders like a heavy load. Living in a small Alpine village, I had hoped to bond with my future daughterinlaw, help raise their children, and feel the warmth of a family again. Nothing unfolded as I imagined, and now their decision to sell the home I gifted them is the final straw that broke me.
From the start, my relationship with Chloe, my daughterinlaw, was strained. I stayed out of their affairs, even though her habits often perplexed me. Their Lyon apartment was perpetually untidyshe only cleaned when forced. I kept silent to avoid arguments, but inside I worried for Theo. What hurt even more was his refusal to cook. He survived on readymade meals or pricey restaurant takeouts. I saw him shouldering the household alone while she squandered her modest salary on beauty salons and clothing. Still, I bit my tongue to prevent a clash.
To support Theo, I frequently invited him over for dinner after work. I prepared homemade dishespotaufeu, quiches, piestrying to remind him of a cozy home. One day, before Chloes birthday, I offered to help with the cooking. No need, she cut me off. Weve booked a restaurant. I dont want to spend the evening cooking like a servant. Her words pierced me. In my day we did everything ourselves, I whispered. And restaurants are so expensive She snapped, Dont count on our money! We earn our own living! I swallowed my tears, but her contempt cut deep.
Years passed. Chloe gave birth to two childrenmy beloved grandchildren, Amélie and Lucas. Their upbringing, however, left me despondent. They were spoiled, never hearing a no. They stayed up late, eyes glued to phones, unaware of any discipline. I dared not speak up, fearing I would push them away. My silence became my only shield, yet it gnawed at my soul each day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Theo delivered a blow I could not recover from. They decided to sell the country house I had handed them a year earlier. That retreat, tucked among pines and birches by a lake, was the heart of our family. My late husband, Pierre, adored the place. We spent every summer there, tending a vegetable garden and a flowerfilled orchard with blooming cherry trees. After his death I returned for a few more years, but I no longer had the strength to maintain it. With great sorrow I gave it to Theo, convinced they would spend family summers there, that the children would grow up breathing fresh air and swimming in the clear lake.
Chloe rejected the idea. No running water, no toiletsthis isnt a vacation, she declared. Wed rather go to the French Riviera! Theo backed her: Mom, honestly, were not interested. Well sell it and move to Greece. Anger rose in me. What about your fathers memory? I whispered. I thought youd all go together But my son merely shrugged. We dont want it. Its not our thing.
My heart ripped apart. That house was more than land; it held our memories, Pierres laughter, his dream of seeing our grandchildren love it as we did. Now they intended to dispose of it like an old piece of furniture for a few sunny days. I feel betrayedby my son and by my own naïveté. I have endured everything silently to keep the peace, and today I realize my silence let them forget what truly matters. That pain, I fear, will never fade.
