When my son and his wife decided to sell the countryside cottage I’d given them, it shattered my heart.
When my son, Oliver, first told me he was getting married, I was over the moon. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness had weighed heavy on my shoulders. Living in a small village in the Lake District, I dreamed of bonding with my future daughter-in-law, helping raise their children, and feeling the warmth of family again. But nothing went as Id hoped, and now, their choice to sell the home Id gifted them feels like the final straw.
From the start, my relationship with my daughter-in-law, Emily, was strained. I kept my distance, though her habits often baffled me. Their flat in Manchester was always a messshe only tidied up grudgingly. I bit my tongue, fearing arguments, but deep down, I worried for Oliver. What stung most was her refusal to cook. My son survived on ready meals or expensive takeaways. It was clear he carried the burden of the household while she spent her modest salary on beauty treatments and clothes. Still, I stayed quiet to keep the peace.
To support Oliver, I often invited him for dinner after work. Id make proper home-cooked mealsroast dinners, shepherds pie, apple crumblehoping to remind him of a cosy home. Once, before Emilys birthday, I offered to help them cook. *”No need,”* she cut in. *”Weve booked a posh restaurant. Im not wasting my evening slaving away in the kitchen.”* Her words cut deep. *”In my day, we did things ourselves,”* I murmured. *”And restaurants cost so much…”* She snapped back, *”Dont count our pennies! We earn our own waywe dont ask you for anything!”* I swallowed my tears, but her disdain left a wound that never healed.
Years passed. Emily had two childrenmy precious grandchildren, Sophie and Jacob. But their upbringing troubled me. They were spoiled, never hearing the word *no*. They stayed up late, glued to their screens, oblivious to discipline. I never spoke up, afraid of pushing them away. My silence was my shield, yet it gnawed at me day by day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Oliver dealt me a blow Ill never recover from. Theyre selling the cottage I gave them just last year. That retreat, nestled among pines and oaks near a quiet lake, was the heart of our family. My husband, William, 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 for a few years, but keeping it up became too much. With a heavy heart, I gave it to Oliver, certain theyd spend summers there as a family, the children growing up wild and free, swimming in the clear lake waters.
But Emily wanted none of it. *”No proper plumbing, no hot waterthats not a holiday,”* she declared. *”Wed rather go to the Costa del Sol!”* Oliver backed her up: *”Mum, honestly, its not our thing. Well sell it and go to Majorca instead.”* Rage choked me. *”And your fathers memory?”* I whispered. *”I thought youd love it there together…”* But my son just shrugged. *”Were not interested. Its not our style.”*
My heart broke. That cottage wasnt just landit was our memories, Williams laughter, his dream of seeing our grandchildren love it as we had. Now theyll sell it like an old sofa for a week in the sun. I feel betrayedby my son, and by my own naivety. I endured in silence to keep peace, but now I see: my silence let them forget what mattered. And this pain, I think, will never fade.
