My son and his wife chose to put up for sale the countryside cottage I had gifted them, shattering my heart.
When Théo told me he was getting married, joy flooded my spirit. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness had settled on me like a heavy cloak. Living in a tiny 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 gave them feels like the final straw that overflows my heart.
From the start, my relationship with Chloë, my daughterinlaw, was strained. I kept my distance, yet her habits often bewildered me. Their flat in Lyon was perpetually untidyshe only cleaned when forced to. I stayed silent, fearing arguments, but inside I worried for Théo. What hurt even more was his refusal to cook. He survived on readymade meals or pricey restaurant takeouts. I saw him bearing the households burden alone while she squandered her modest salary on beauty salons and new clothes. Still, I clenched my teeth to avoid a clash.
To ease Théos load, I frequently invited him over for dinner after work. I would prepare homecooked dishespotaufeu, quiches, pieshoping to remind him of a cozy hearth. One day, before Chloës birthday, I offered to help them with the cooking. No need, she snapped. Weve booked a restaurant. I dont want to spend my evening cooking like a maid. Her words pierced me. In my day we did everything ourselves, I murmured. And restaurants are expensive She snapped back, Dont count on our money! We earn our own living! I swallowed my tears, but her disdain cut deep.
Years passed. Chloë gave birth to two grandchildrenmy beloved Amélie and Lucas. Yet their upbringing worried me. The children were pampered, never hearing a firm no. They stayed up late, eyes glued to their phones, oblivious to any notion of discipline. I dared not speak up, fearing I might push them away. My silence became my sole shield, yet it gnawed at my soul day by day.
A few weeks ago, Théo delivered a blow from which I have not yet recovered: they had decided to sell the country house I had given them a year earlier. That sanctuary, nestled among pines and birches beside a lake, was the heart of our family. My late husband, Pierre, adored the place. Every summer we tended the garden, cultivated the vegetable patch, and watched cherry trees bloom. After his death I returned for a few more years, but I no longer had the strength to maintain it. With a heavy heart I gifted it to Théo, convinced they would spend summers there, that the children would grow up breathing fresh air and swimming in the clear lake.
But Chloë was opposed. No indoor plumbing, no running waterthis isnt a holiday, she declared. Wed rather go to the Côte dAzur! Théo backed her up: Mom, honestly, were not interested. Well sell it and head to Greece. Anger rose in me. What about your fathers memory? I whispered. I thought youd all go together Théo simply shrugged. We dont want it. Its not our thing.
My heart cracked. The house was more than a piece of land; it held Pierres laughter, his dream of seeing our grandchildren love it as we did. Now they were ready to treat it like an old piece of furniture, sold for a few sunny days. I feel betrayedby my son and by my own naïveté. I have endured everything in silence to keep the peace, and now I realize that my silence let them forget what truly matters. That pain, I fear, will never fade.
My son and his wife have chosen to sell the country cottage I gifted them, breaking my heart in the process.
