My son has been my friend and my rock all my life, but after his wedding, we became strangers.
My lad was always my closest mate and my greatest support. But once he tied the knot, everything changed.
I never imagined my own child could shift so much under someone elses sway. My only boy, Oliver, had always been a proper gempolite, kind, ever ready to lend a hand. Thats how he grew up, and thats how he stayed well into manhood. Before he married, we were thick as thievesmeeting often, chatting for hours about everything and nothing, sharing our worries and joys, backing each other up. Of course, I kept my nose out where it wasnt wanted. But it all fell apart when she came into his lifeSophie.
For their wedding, Sophie and Oliver were given a one-bedroom flat in central London as a gift from her parents, freshly done up. It became their own little nest. I was never invited round, though Ollie showed me pictures on his phonebright walls, new furniture, cosy as you like. After my husband passed, I hadnt two pennies to rub together, so I decided to hand down nearly all my jewellerygold chains, rings, earrings Id gathered over the years. I told Sophie, “Melt them down if you like.” I meant wellwanted to give them a leg up.
But Sophie she showed her true colours quick enough. A right piece of work, sharp as a tack. I noticed how she rifled through the wedding envelopes stuffed with cashher nosiness over how much was inside set me on edge. In one way, that mightve made her a practical wife, but I knew to watch my step. Women these days often see their husbands as wallets, spend their money like its theirs, then divorce, take half, and hunt for the next bloke. I dont wish that on Ollie, but the worry gnaws at me.
Six months after the wedding, Sophie announced she didnt want kids just yet. Not now, she saidnot in their tiny flat. She threw her hands up. “What can we do? I wont take out a loan, and who knows when well afford a proper house? Olivers not exactly CEO yet.” She said it like she was thinking aloud, but I heard the calculation in her voice. Meanwhile, I live in the house my late husband started building. Its half-finished, gaps in the walls. Freezing in wintermy pension doesnt stretch to heating it all. Then Sophie dropped this: “Sell your house, buy a studio, and give us the rest for a bigger place. Then well think about kids.”
See what shes after? Wants me, old and worn, to squeeze into a shoebox while they take the lot. And whos to say they wouldnt nick that too, shove me into a care home? At first, I even considered itif theyd help me out now and then. But now? Not on your life. With a woman like Sophie, youve got to keep your wits about youshes the sort to stick the knife in when you least expect it.
After that chat, Oliver popped round a few times. Gently hinted her idea wasnt half bad. “Why dyou need a big house? A flatd be easier, cheaper to run.” I held firm. “Londons growing. In five or ten years, this placell be worth more. My lands not out in the sticksselling nowd be daft.” Once, I suggested a swapthey move into my house, me into their flat. Same difference, aint it? But Sophie refused. Didnt like that the place needed work, money poured into it, while Id be sat pretty in their ready-made flat. She wants comfort, even if my offers the smarter move. Thats herstubborn as a mule.
Then I fell ill. Proper poorlyfever, cough, splitting headache, couldnt get out of bed. I rang Oliver, begged him to bring food and medicine. I knew they were busy, but I hadnt the strength to boil water. Once, Id never have dreamed hed leave me hanging. Now? He didnt come till next day. Made up some Lemsip, left an opened packet of aspirin, probably out of date, shrugged, and off he went. Luckily, a mate stepped inbrought soup, proper meds, the lot. And if she hadnt? What then?
My boy was my light, my rock all my days. I trusted him blindhe wasnt just my son, he was my friend, part of me. But marriage wiped that clean. Now were strangers, and I cant fix it. Hes my only child, my love, my pride, but now I seehis hearts not with me anymore. He chose her. Sophies built a wall between us, and Im left on the other sidealone, cast aside, forgotten. My head says its done. Time for him to pickhis mum or his wife. And the choice is plain as day. But my heart still hopes hell remember what I was to him, that hell come back. Still, day by day, that hope fades like the last warmth of summer.
