My son and his wife decided to sell the country house I had given them, shattering my heart.
When Theo told me he was getting married, joy filled me. Since becoming a widow three years ago, loneliness had settled on my shoulders like a weight. Living in a tiny Alpine village, I hoped to bond with my future daughterinlaw, help raise their children, and feel the warmth of a family again. Nothing turned out as I had imagined, and now their choice to part with the house I gifted them feels like the final straw breaking my heart.
From the start, my relationship with Chloe, my daughterinlaw, was strained. I stayed out of their affairs, though her habits often bewildered me. Their Lyon apartment was perpetually messyshe only cleaned reluctantly. I kept quiet to avoid arguments, but inside I worried for Theo. What pained me even more was her refusal to cook. My son survived on readymade meals or pricey restaurant dishes. He bore the burden of the household alone while she spent her meager wages on beauty salons and clothes. Still, I clenched my teeth and didnt provoke a fight.
To support Theo, I often invited him over for dinner after work. I cooked homestyle dishespotaufeu, quiches, pieshoping to remind him of a cozy home. One day, before Chloes birthday, I offered to help them with the meal. No need, she snapped. Weve booked a restaurant. I dont want to spend my evening cooking like a servant. Her words cut me. In my day we did everything ourselves, I murmured. And restaurants are so expensive She retorted, Dont count on our money! We earn our own living! I swallowed my tears, but her contempt pierced me deeply.
Years passed. Chloe gave birth to two childrenmy beloved grandchildren, Amélie and Lucas. Their upbringing, however, left me despairing. They were spoiled, never hearing a no. They stayed up late, eyes glued to their phones, oblivious to discipline. I dared not speak up, fearing I would push them away. My silence became my only shield, yet it gnawed at my soul each day.
Then, a few weeks ago, Theo dealt me a blow from which I have not recovered. They decided to sell the country house I had given them a year earlier. That refuge, tucked among pines and birches beside a lake, was the heart of our family. My husband Pierre loved that spot. Every summer we tended the garden, grew vegetables, and watched the cherry trees bloom. After he passed, I returned for a few more years, but I no longer had the strength to care for it. With great sorrow I gave it to Theo, convinced they would spend summers together there, that the children would grow up outdoors, swimming in the clear lake.
Chloe objected. No plumbing, no running waterthis isnt a vacation, she declared. Wed rather go to the Côte dAzur! Theo backed her up: Mom, honestly, were not interested. Well sell it and go to Greece. Anger rose in me. What about your fathers memory? I whispered. I thought youd all want to go together My son merely shrugged. We dont want it. Its not for us.
My heart tore apart. That house was more than a plot of land; it held our memories, Pierres laughter, his dream of seeing our grandchildren love it as we did. Now they were treating it like an old piece of furniture to be sold for a few days of sunshine. I feel betrayedby my son and by my own naïveté. I endured everything in silence to keep the peace, and today I realize my silence let them forget what truly mattered. That pain, I fear, will never fade.
My Son and His Wife Have Chosen to Sell the Country House I Gave Them, Shattering My Heart.
