Not long ago, I turned sixty. Retirement, aching legs, weariness from life and people—just like so many women who carried the weight alone, without help, without a man’s shoulder to lean on. In my prime, I was a hairdresser—not the easiest trade, especially when you spend every day on your feet, smiling through it all. Now my health isn’t what it used to be, and I work rarely, mostly for friends and acquaintances.
My husband vanished from my life long ago. We divorced soon after our son, James, was born—my ex turned out to be a lazy, useless man who did nothing but smoke indoors and drink with his mates. Work was “beneath him,” yet he had no trouble living off my wages. I left without regret, finally breathing free. From then on, I did everything myself. Alone. And I raised my son alone.
I did my best for him, trying to be both mother and father. Yes, there were mistakes—there was never time for heart-to-hearts. I worked myself ragged. When he grew up and left for his service, I thought, perhaps now, his life would take a different path.
Then he came back. Brought home a girl—quiet, kind, warm. Emily. They married within months. I welcomed her gladly, even let them stay with me at first. We became friends, truly. Never a cross word between us. We cooked together, watched films in the evenings, talked about everything—from recipes to books. With her, I felt at ease—as if I’d gained a daughter.
Later, they moved out. Had a son—my first grandson. Emily refused to sit idle and went back to work. James landed a decent job, then started his own business. I was proud—it had all come good.
When I needed surgery, Emily didn’t hesitate—drove me to a private clinic and covered the bill without a murmur. Not a hint of resentment. Just help, freely given. I’ll never forget that.
Then, after nine years of marriage—divorce. James, my son, walked out. Packed his things and left. Said he’d fallen for someone else. Emily fought for their marriage, but he was ice. Later, she confessed—he’d had a mistress for two years. I couldn’t believe it.
The first time he brought his new woman to my house, I was stunned. Vulgar, coarse, manners like a market trader. Every other word foul, lips swollen like rubber, empty eyes. I tried to reason with him: “Are you sure this is the woman you want to share your life with?” He brushed me off. No wedding planned—his new flame “didn’t like fuss.”
I said nothing. He isn’t eighteen—his choices are his own. But something inside me broke. Emily and I kept in touch. She visited with my grandson, called with soups and fruit, just as before. We didn’t lose each other. But with James… it all faded. As though he’d been erased from my life. Or perhaps he erased himself.
I stopped expecting him at holidays. I knew—he wouldn’t come alone. And I wouldn’t have that woman in my home. I wouldn’t listen to her shouting down the phone at my table. I wouldn’t let my grandson hear the way she speaks.
So at Christmas, Easter, birthdays—Emily comes. With my grandson. We lay the table, drink tea, remember the past. We laugh. And I’m happy. I don’t have to welcome what brings me pain—even if my son chose it.
Not long ago, James called, wanting to visit. I refused. Said plain as day: “Not with her. Come alone. But you won’t.” He hung up. Silence since.
And I don’t ache. I’ve lived a hard life. I know who stood by me when I needed it most. And I won’t betray the one who never betrayed me.
I spend my holidays with my former daughter-in-law. Because she’s become closer than my own son. And no, I’m not ashamed.
