An apartment for my son, but on one condition: I must marry him again.
My name is Anne, Im sixty and I live in Tours. I never could have imagined that after everything Id endured, my past would reappear in my life with such brazen cynicism, twenty years after a total silence. The most painful part is that the one who set this comeback in motion is none other than my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I was head over heels. Philippetall, charming, jovialwas the very embodiment of a dream. We married quickly, and a year later our son Paul was born. The early years felt like a fairytale. We lived in a tiny 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 started coming home later and later, lied, drifted away. I tried to ignore the rumors, to turn a blind eye to his late returns and the scent of foreign perfume. Eventually everything became clear: he was cheating. Not once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbors, even my parents all knew. And I kept fighting to save our familyfor Paul. I endured far too long, hoping he would come to his senses. Then, one night, I woke up to find he hadnt come home, and I realized 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. Soon he found another woman and acted as if we had never existed. No letters, no callscomplete indifference. I was left alone. My mother passed away, 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 no time. He was everything to me.
When Paul enrolled at the University of Lyon, I helped however I couldsending parcels, giving money, offering support. But buying an apartment 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 brief. He was nervous, avoided my gaze, then finally said:
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 inherited from his grandmother. Buton one condition. I had to marry him again and let him move into my flat.
My breath stopped. I stared at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He continued:
Youre all alone you have no one. Why not try once more? For me. For my future family. Dad has changed
I went into the kitchen, silent. The kettle, the tea, my trembling hands. Everything seemed a blur. 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 began shouting, accusing me. He said 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. He didnt know I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat. He didnt know I deprived myself so he could eat meat, not me.
I dont feel lonely. My life has been hard but honest. I have a job, books, a garden, friends. I dont 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 the best for himselfjust as I once wanted for him. But I cannot barter my dignity for a few square meters. The price is too high.
Maybe hell understand someday. Maybe not soon. Yet I will wait, because I love him. With a true, unconditional lovewithout apartments, without ifs. I gave him life out of love. I raised him with love. I will not let that love become a commodity.
As for my exhusband let him remain in the past. His place is there.
A Flat for Our Son, But There’s a Catch: I Must Marry Him First!
