**Diary Entry**
My son rented out our flat without even bothering to tell us. We gave him everything, and in return, we were left with nothing.
My husband, William, and I married when we were both twenty-three. I was already pregnant, but thankfully, we’d both graduated from university with teaching degrees. Neither of our families was well-off—no “golden inheritance,” no wealthy relatives, no savings. From the very beginning, we had to work tirelessly just to get by.
I barely took maternity leave. I had no milk—perhaps from stress, perhaps from constant lack of proper meals—so we switched our son to formula early. By eleven months, we had to put him in nursery, where he learned to use a spoon, a potty, and how to sleep without being rocked. Meanwhile, William and I threw ourselves into work—renting flats at first, then moving into university housing, eventually saving enough for a one-bed, and later, a two-bed in a nice part of London.
A few years ago, we bought a little plot in the countryside. William built a cosy wooden cottage himself—two bedrooms, a fireplace, even a small sauna. We brought in furniture, planted a vegetable garden. It felt like we could finally enjoy life. We’re only forty-six, after all—still so much ahead of us.
Then our son, Oliver, decided to marry at twenty-three. His fiancée, Eleanor, came from money—they’d studied law together. Her parents were well-off: a three-storey estate in Surrey, luxury cars, their own business. Naturally, their daughter wanted a grand wedding—a posh reception, a limousine, a honeymoon, and… her own flat.
William and I had always carried guilt over Oliver. His childhood was spent in nurseries, afterschool clubs—because we were always working. We tried to make up for it with gifts: toys, clothes, trips, private tutors. For his eighteenth, we gave him a secondhand but reliable car. When he started uni, we paid his tuition. And of course, we couldn’t say no now. We handed over all our savings for the wedding and… let him have our flat, moving to the cottage ourselves.
Eleanor’s parents did things differently—investing in their daughter: a mink coat, gold jewellery, designer furniture. At first, Oliver seemed grateful, but slowly, he changed. His calls became less frequent—from every fortnight, to once a month, then nothing at all.
One day, at the market, we bumped into an old neighbour, who casually mentioned, “Did you not know your flat’s being rented out? Oliver and Eleanor live with her parents now—apparently, it’s more comfortable there.”
William went pale, swaying on his feet. We called Oliver straight away. His response was ice-cold: “You gave me the flat. Eleanor refuses to live in your ‘outdated’ place, and renting somewhere decent costs a fortune. At least the tenants pay.”
When we tried to talk about trust and decency, he snapped, “I grew up poor! Other kids had proper parents, but I got you—teachers who preach about morals but couldn’t give me anything! I’m tired of being embarrassed in front of my in-laws because my parents are just ordinary civil servants!”
After that, we acted. We didn’t sue—just went to the flat, spoke to the tenants, explained everything. Thankfully, they were decent people and moved out within a month.
We’re back in our home now. We don’t speak to Oliver. William’s crushed, and so am I. Yes, we gave him everything—no conditions, just love. And we were left empty-handed, with broken hearts.
Maybe, in time, he’ll understand. Or maybe not. But one thing’s certain: never sacrifice everything for someone who won’t value it.
