My son and his wife have decided to sell the countryside house I gave them, crushing my heart in the process.
When my son, Oliver, first told me he was getting married, joy swelled in my chest. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness had settled over me like a suffocating weight. Living in a quiet village in the Cotswolds, I longed to bond with my future daughter-in-law, to help raise their children, to feel the warmth of family again. But nothing went as Id hoped, and now, their choice to sell the house I gifted them is the final blow that has shattered me.
From the start, my relationship with Emily, my daughter-in-law, was strained. I tried not to interfere, though her ways often baffled me. Their flat in Manchester was always in disarrayshe only tidied up reluctantly. I bit my tongue, fearing arguments, but inside, I worried for Oliver. What pained me most was her refusal to cook. My son survived on takeaway meals and overpriced restaurants. I watched as he shouldered the household burdens alone while she spent her modest salary on spa days and designer clothes. Still, I clenched my jaw to keep the peace.
To support Oliver, I often invited him for dinner after work. I made home-cooked mealsroast dinners, shepherds pies, treacle tartshoping to remind him of the comfort of a loving home. Once, before Emilys birthday, I offered to help them prepare a meal. *”No need,”* she cut in. *”Weve booked a table. I dont fancy spending my evening slaving away like a servant.”* Her words stabbed through me. *”In my day, we did things ourselves,”* I murmured. *”Restaurants cost a fortune…”* She snapped back, *”Dont count our money! We earn our own keepwe dont owe you anything!”* I swallowed my tears, but her contempt cut deeper than I let on.
Years passed. Emily gave birth to two childrenmy beloved grandchildren, Sophie and Liam. But their upbringing left me despairing. Spoilt rotten, they never heard the word *no*. They stayed up late, glued to their screens, oblivious to discipline. I never dared speak up, terrified of pushing them away. My silence was my shield, yet it ate at me, day after day.
Then, weeks ago, Oliver struck the cruelest blow. Theyve decided to sell the countryside house I gifted them last year. That retreat, nestled among pines and oaks near a quiet lake, was the heart of our family. My husband, Henry, adored it. We spent every summer there, tending the vegetable patch, caring for the garden where apple trees blossomed. After he passed, I still visited, but the upkeep became too much. With a heavy heart, I gave it to Oliver, certain theyd make memories therethat the children would grow up swimming in the lake, breathing fresh country air.
But Emily wanted none of it. *”No proper plumbing, no modern comfortsits not a holiday,”* she scoffed. *”Wed rather go to the Costa del Sol!”* Oliver backed her up: *”Mum, honestly, its not for us. Well sell it and go to Portugal instead.”* Rage choked me. *”And your fathers memory?”* I whispered. *”I thought youd want to go there together…”* But my son just shrugged. *”Not our thing.”*
My heart tore in two. That house wasnt just landit held our memories, Henrys laughter, his dreams of our grandchildren loving it as we had. Now theyll sell it for a few days of foreign sun like its some old piece of furniture. I feel betrayedby my son, and by my own foolish hope. I endured in silence to keep peace, but now I seemy silence let them forget what truly mattered. And this pain, I fear, will never fade.
