My son called to moan about his life, and I knew straight away what he was after, but my decision is resolute.
I’m the mother of three grown-up children: two sons and a daughter. They’re all adults now, and I’m eagerly waiting for grandchildren, although I understand they need to settle down with families first. These days, it’s trendy to live in “partnerships,” delaying marriage and stretching out family creation over years. I always believed my main task was to raise my children to be independent, to give them wings, and then finally relax and live for myself. But that peace never came. I still find myself overwhelmed with worry for them. Why does it all rest on my shoulders? Because I married an immature man who couldn’t take care of himself or the children, leaving me to carry the entire load.
Let me explain. My eldest son, Alex, is skeptical about family life and doesn’t even think about marriage yet. My youngest, Mary, took her time playing the field, smartly keeping her head. She’s now found her partner, and they’ve been living together in a small town outside Manchester for two years—only the wedding remains. I’m almost at ease with Mary—she knows what she wants.
But it’s my middle son, David, who’s given me grey hairs and sleepless nights! Back in university, he moved in with his girlfriend. “Mum, I’m getting married!” he announced excitedly. But his so-called love of his life, Natalie, turned out to be crafty: she wrapped him around her finger, drained money from him and me, then left him for someone else. It hit me like a thunderbolt. They rented a flat together, but money was always short. “Mum, I can’t pay the rent!” he’d call each month, despair in his voice. I’d ask, “Why don’t you both contribute?” and he’d say, “Natalie’s saving for a gift for her mum.” And I’d help, sending him money so he wouldn’t have to quit university under that burden.
After Natalie left, I made up my mind: let this be a lesson for him. Under my stern guidance, David finished university, earned his degree, and I thought, got a bit smarter. But no! Only fools learn from others’ mistakes, while the wise learn from their own after the third try. Enter Emily. “Mum, she’s the best!” he exclaimed, eyes shining. She seemed sensible and practical at first glance. I was even hopeful—maybe this one wouldn’t let him down? They moved to another town, rented a flat to live separately. And the cycle repeated: they were again short on money.
David was earning a decent salary then—enough for entire families with kids to live on for a month! But for two adults, it was “not enough.” Emily might not work for months, even a year: struggling to find a job, ill health, not fitting in with colleagues. They’ve lived in this “partnership” for five years now. And all these years, I’ve regularly sent money to my son. Small amounts, but still! I know I should’ve stopped helping a long time ago, but each time he’d call with that pitiful “Mum, I haven’t even got money for bread!”, my heart would break. This is my son, my own flesh and blood! How could I say “no”?
I tried to open his eyes, yelling down the phone: “David, this isn’t normal! How can you squander money like this? Where’s it all going? With today’s prices, you should have plenty!” And he’d retort, “I know, you’ve never liked Emily!” My son doesn’t hear me, as if I’m speaking to a brick wall. What should I do? I feel lost, my anxiety gnaws at me.
Yesterday, he called again. His voice was weary, almost broken: he quit his job, hasn’t found a new one yet, and doesn’t know how to proceed. His girlfriend—or is she his wife now?—is currently working, earning money. Yet here’s the paradox: David’s money is “shared,” while Emily’s is solely hers, spent only on herself. Seriously, what kind of life is this? I listened to his whining and knew where it was heading. He’d ask once more for “just a little” to get through the month.
But I told myself it’s enough! Firmly, as if laying down the law. Let them sort it out themselves. Let Emily support him, or let him finally wise up and see who he’s really with. My patience has run dry. I can’t be their eternal lifeline anymore. My heart aches, tears threaten to spill, but I gritted my teeth and decided: not a penny more. Now I ask for advice: how do I stand firm? How do I keep from caving in when he calls to complain again? How do I keep my word when a mother’s love screams out, “Help him”? I want my son to become a man, not a boy clutching at my skirt. Help me find the strength!
