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 imagined that after everything Id endured, the past would thrust itself back into my life with such brazenness and cynicism, twenty years after a complete silence. The worst part is that the one who sparked this return is none other than my own son.
When I was twentyfive, I was wildly in love. 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 as time went on, Philippe changed. He came home later and later, told lies, drifted away. I tried not to believe the rumors, to ignore his late returns and the scent of foreign perfume. Eventually everything became clear: he was cheating. Not just once, but repeatedly. Friends, neighbours, even my parentsall knew. Yet I clung to saving our familyfor Pauls sake. 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 realised 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. He soon found another woman and acted as if we had never existed. No letters, no calls. Complete 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 never lack anything. I had no personal lifeno time. He was everything to me.
When Paul entered 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 hed manage. I was proud of him.
Last month he returned with news: he had decided to get married. The excitement was brief. He was nervous, avoided my gaze, then 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 come back to France and was offering him the keys to a tworoom apartment that had belonged to his grandmother. But there was a condition: I had to remarry him and let him move into my flat.
My breath caught. 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 retreated to the kitchen in silence. The kettle, the tea, my trembling hands. Everything was a blur. Twenty years of carrying everything alone. Twenty years while he never cared about us. And now he comes back with a proposal.
Back in the living room I said calmly:
No. I wont accept.
Paul erupted. He shouted, accused me of thinking only of myself, blamed me for his lack of a father, claimed I was now ruining his life again. I stayed silent, because each word pierced my heart. He didnt know how I spent sleepless, exhausted nights. 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 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, who returns not out of love but for comfort.
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 sell my dignity for a few square metres. The price is too high.
Maybe hell understand someday. Maybe not soon. But I will wait for him, because I love himtruly, without conditions, without apartments, without ifs. I gave him life out of love, raised him with love, and I will not let that love become a commodity.
As for my exhusband let him remain in the past. His place is there.
