Im Anne, sixty years old, living in Tours. I never imagined that after everything Id endured, the past would reappear in my life with such boldness and cynicism, twenty years after a complete silence. The most painful part is that the person behind this return is my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I was hopelessly in love. Philippetall, charming, cheerfulwas my perfect 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, told lies, drifted away. I tried to ignore the rumors, to turn a blind eye to his late arrivals and the scent of foreign perfume. Then, inevitably, the truth became clear: he was cheating. Not just once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbours, even my parents all knew. And I stubbornly tried to keep the family togetherfor Pauls sake. I endured far too long, hoping he would see reason. One night I woke to find he hadnt returned, and I realized I couldnt go on.
I gathered my belongings, took fiveyearold Paul by the hand, and went to my mothers house. Philippe didnt even attempt to stop us. A month later he left for abroad, supposedly for work. He soon found another woman and acted as if we had never existedno letters, no calls, complete indifference. I was left alone. My mother passed away, then my father. Paul and I faced everything togetherschool, activities, illnesses, joys, graduation ceremonies. 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 entered the University of Lyon, I helped him however I couldshipping parcels, giving money, offering support. Buying an apartment, however, was out of reach; our finances simply didnt allow it. He never complained; he said he would manage. I was proud of him.
Last month he returned with news: he had decided to get married. The joy was brief. He was nervous, avoided my gaze, then said:
Mom I need your help. Its about dad.
I was frozen. He told me he had recently reestablished contact with Philippe. His father had come back to France and was offering him the keys to a tworoom apartment that had been inherited from his grandmother. But there was a condition: I had to marry him again and let him move into my flat.
My breath caught. I stared at my son, unable to believe he was serious. He continued:
Youre alone you have nobody. Why not try once more? For me. For my future family. Dad has changed
I slipped into the kitchen, silent. The kettle boiled, I made tea, my hands trembling. Everything blurred before my eyes. Twenty years of carrying everything alone. Twenty years during which he never cared about us. And now he returns with a proposal.
I went back to the living room and said calmly:
No. I will not accept.
Paul exploded. 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 how many sleepless, exhausting nights I endured. How I sold my wedding ring to buy him a winter coat. How I deprived myself so he could eat meat while I went without.
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 now returns, not out of love, but for convenience.
My son left without saying goodbye. He hasnt called since. I know he is hurt. I understand him. He wants whats best for himselfjust as I once did for him. Yet I cannot sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too steep.
Perhaps he will understand someday. Maybe not soon. But I will wait for him, because I love himtruly, without conditions, without flats, without ifs. I brought him into the world out of love, and I raised him with love. I will not let that love turn into a commodity.
As for my exhusband let him remain in the past. His place is there.
