**Sunday, 12th March**
I hardly recognise my son anymore—not in body, but in spirit. He seems to fade before my very eyes, his fire dimming, his will slipping away. And all because of the woman he shares his life with. The one who once seemed so dependable, so right for him—only to reveal herself as… I can’t even find the words without my throat tightening.
Thomas married a few years ago. He was in his thirties, with a stable career already behind him. Around that time, he’d just been promoted to director at a logistics firm here in Manchester. He had a son from his first marriage, and I’d always believed he’d be more careful choosing his second wife. Yes, things moved quickly with Laura. She had her own business—a chain of shops—always busy, always in control, not one for sentiment. I kept my thoughts to myself. All that mattered was his happiness.
Before the wedding, Laura lived with us for a few months. At the time, I thought her strong-willed, efficient, not one to chatter idly. The house ran like clockwork when she was around. Thomas glowed, insisting he’d found *the one*. Their wedding was simple but warm—gifts, toasts, flowers. Then they moved into their own flat.
Within months, Laura declared it was “time for a baby”—age wasn’t on her side, she said. At first, she struggled to conceive. Then she went to the Maldives with a friend and returned announcing, *”I’m pregnant.”* Thomas was overjoyed. I felt uneasy but bit my tongue.
The pregnancy was rough. Laura swung between tears and fury. Thomas would call, asking if such moods were normal. I put it down to hormones, assured him it would pass. I thought things would settle after the birth.
Instead, they worsened. When they left the hospital, Thomas brought her an exquisite bouquet. Without a word, she tossed it straight into the bin by the entrance. I remember catching his expression—lost, shoulders slumped. I didn’t know whether to hold him or scream.
Soon, she began leaving their son with me while she went about her business. I’d come over, mind the baby. Her home was immaculate, every detail scheduled—feeding, naps, walks. Yet from her? Not a smile, not a word of thanks. Always tense, cold, simmering with something unspoken. I felt like an intruder, though I did everything I could.
A year passed, then another. Nothing changed. Thomas became a shadow of himself—exhausted, deflated. I tried talking to him. He blamed tiredness, then admitted, *”I don’t know how to live with her. Nothing’s ever good enough.”* He’d ask what was wrong, how to fix it. Her response? Shouts, threats—*”I’ll take the baby to my parents, and you’ll never see him again.”*
Then came the worst. Laura forbade him from travelling for work. *”I’m not a babysitter. He’s your child—stay with him.”* Thomas quit his director’s role, switched to remote work, took on freelance jobs. His salary halved. Now she sneers that he’s *”a nobody”*, *”living off her”*, though he gave it all up for her.
Last month, he fell ill—proper flu, fever raging. I begged to take my grandson, to keep him from catching it. Laura refused. I went anyway. What I saw made my knees buckle: Thomas, sweat-soaked and trembling, mopping floors while she lounged on the sofa, phone in hand. *”Why should he lie around? I worked through fever too,”* she snapped.
I sat at their kitchen table and wept. My son—a man of such kindness, such strength—reduced to this. She’s breaking him, grinding him down. And he endures it. Talks to him? He won’t listen. Talks to her? Pointless. She’s a block of ice. I fear one day he’ll snap. And then I’ll lose him—for good.
