My Son Doesn’t Want to See Me Anymore: A Mother’s Heartbreak After I Told His Wife the Truth and Tri…

Mum, what did you say to my wife? She was nearly packing her bags.
I just told her the truth. You must see it yourself, shes not right for you; someone like Margaret would be a far better match.
Margaret? Whatever do you mean?

I have always believed my son was special. Being my firstborn, he was the centre of my world, loved beyond compare. When he grew up, met a young woman and married, I found it hard to accept. To think hed found somebody who might, in any way, replace mewell, it was too much for my heart. Giving up my beloved child into the hands of another woman was not easy.

He washe ismy life, my pride, the one I would have given anything for. I raised him alone; my husband was ever away on business somewhere across the Isles, so I played the part of both mother and father, learning to fix bicycle tyres and kick a football, and even join in his soldier games, all so I could share in his world. I know deep down, he never forgot that.

Of course, I wanted nothing more than for my son to be happy and flourish, for he is my dearest treasure. But I knew, in my bones, that his wife did not care for him as I did. She seemed to put in no effortnever cooked, left the crockery to fester in the sink, scattered her belongings all about. She hardly made any attempt to turn their flat into a proper home.

Still, my desire to look after him never waned. So, each week, I would slip into their flat (I had a spare key, after all), while they were at work, and take away his dirty washing to do at mine. Id let myself in as quietly as I could so that his shrew of a wife wouldnt find out, gather it all, and have it washed and pressed, ready for his drawer by the next day.

I couldnt leave things any other way. He was always busy, splitting himself between work and studies; yet, after three years of marriage, his wife still hadnt worked out how to wash his socks or press his trousers properly.

I did his laundry myself, using the gentle powder I knew he needed. It took so much of my time and energy, but I willingly did itjust so my boy would never want for clean clothes. Silently, Id fold it all and put it neatly away in his wardrobe, never disturbing a soul.

His wife, poor thing, didnt have a clue about his allergies to regular soap, lumping all the dirty things together in one wash, then leaving them to dry in any old fashion. His wool jumperthe one Id knitted for his last birthdaywas stretched and bobbly, all because she washed it in boiling water and pegged it on string like an old bedsheet. In the end, I had to unravel it and knit it over again. Easier to do it myself than to fix her disasters.

She never understood why I did any of this. Shed huff that it was no job of hers, that I ought to teach my son to stand on his own two feet. But how could I leave him to flounder, surrounded by squalor? I couldnt bear knowing he had to cook, iron, and clean while she lounged around on the settee.

My husband used to scold me for it all, said I was fussing over our grown-up boy, that hed chosen his wife and ought to live accordingly. But how was I to sleep, knowing my son was tending to household tasks as she idled?

At last, I decided to do one last round of laundry before stepping back. That morning, once theyd both left for work, I nipped in and took every stitch of clothingsome of hers included, as theyd started to reek, and I didnt want her tainting my sons shirts with her stale odour. I bundled everything up and hurried home to get started, having encouraged my husband to visit his friend for the day, so as not to get underfoot.

I washed not just his clothes but blankets too, pressed everything, and ended up with a great sack full to return. Thankfully, our houses were just around the corner from one another, so it wasnt far. He lived on the fourth floor, and my knees arent what they were, so I usually took the liftbut of course, that day it was out for repairs. There was nothing for it but to trudge up the stairs.

It took me over an hour, dragging that load, all the while thinking of my boy living amongst filth. I cried the whole way, my heart breaking for him. I wished only for his happiness, or perhaps that hed find himself with a different womansomeone more like Margaret, someone gentle and tidy.

Finally, I reached his flat, let myself in without knocking as usual, and quickly placed the clean clothes inside. The neighbours spaniel, ever the yapping mutt, would raise the alarm if I was noisy. I noticed strange shoes scattered about; clearly, theyd both come home early, and shed made her usual mess.

Moving further in, by the bedroom door, I spied a pair of his trousers on the floor. I thought Id forgotten to wash them, so bent to pick them up to iron for him on the spot. But when I was about to enter, I heard unmistakable noises from within. Looking up, I caught sight of my sonmy own flesh and bloodin bed with another woman. Not his fair-haired wife, but a dark-haired lass.

I froze. My son noticed me at that moment and cried out:

Mum, get out! For heavens sake, leave me be! Flustered, I pulled the door to and mumbled,

Come out, darling, I need a word with you. After a while, he shuffled into the kitchen in the dressing gown Id given him.

Mum, why are you here? Did you use your key?

Yes, darling, you gave it to me last year so I could pop by when needed, I replied, meek as ever.

Well, Mum, you might give some warning before showing up.

I only came to drop off your laundered things; you knew Id be by

I was expecting you tomorrow, he shot back, turning away.

Forgive mebut was that your wife? Has she changed her hair? I asked, trying not to let my voice tremble.

No, Mum, thats not her. Thats someone else, my son admitted, shamefaced.

Are you cheating on your wife, then?

I suppose youll think less of me for it.

Whatever happens, darling, Im on your side.

To be honest, I quite prefer this Margaret. My wife is always at work, never cares for the home, but Margaretshe cooks, tidies the kitchen, always so caring, knows how to look after a man. But Ill stay with my wife, reallyits all just a bit of folly, he said, pensively.

Well, my dear boy, whatever you choose, know your mother stands by you. I shant trouble you again, and Ill hope you end up with someone who looks after you as Margaret does. With that, I left quietly.

I was honestly delighted that hed met a proper girl. The kitchen was tidy, the floors clean, a steaming pot on the stove; this one might really keep him shipshape. She was pretty, too. I had no doubt my sons true heart would see where beauty and order lie, and where chaos and ugliness did not.

That incident was over a week ago. At last, I felt at peace, knowing my boy was cared for. Popping into the grocer near my house, I caught sight of his wifeher basket, as usual, spilling over with posh nonsense. There was avocado, some mysterious green fruit, rye crispbreads, buckwheat and kefir. I approached and asked,

Oh, Susan, are you on a diet again?

Hello, Mrs Smith. Yes, your son and I are cutting back. Weve booked a trip to the Canaries and wish to look picture-perfect, she said, putting on airs.

Whats this about, with my son? I thought youd parted.

What on earth? Did he say that?

Well, hes got another nowMargaret.

Who? Margaret? I havent noticed anything. Weve not even had a row.

But Margaret was round, you two were together, she even tidied the kitchen. I thought hed told you. Well, congratulationsnow you can find someone new to eat buckwheat with you.

What kitchen? Whos Margaret? Have you lost your mind? Youve turned him against me and tossed some Margaret or whatnot into his bed? Ive seen enoughyou never let us breathe, honestly! Susan flung her basket down and stormed out of the shop. I hadnt realised she had such a temper. Yet what amazed me more was that my boy left Margaret for such a woman.

A few days later, my son rang:

Hello, darling, whats the matter? I said gently as always.

Mum, what have you been saying to my wife? She was about to pack and go!

I just told her the truth. Shes not right for you. Margaret would be perfect.

Theres no Margaret, what are you on about?

But wasnt that so? I thought youd chosen her and left your wife.

I havent left anyone. Theres no Margaret! Please stop calling, and by the way, were changing the locks. I dont want to speak to you anymore. Just forget me. Youre no longer my mother.The line went dead before I could say another word. The silence settled over me, thicker than wool and twice as scratchy. I sat at my kitchen table staring at the spare key, its teeth biting into my palm, and for the first time in all these years, I realized how heavy it washeavier than the load of laundry, than the scoldings from my husband, than even the truth I thought Id spoken for his own good. Maybe there never was a Margaret. Maybe there was only the hope that someone else would smooth away the chaos and let me still belong, still matter.

The kettle shrieked, startling me from my reverie, and I poured myself a cup of tea, my hands trembling a little. Through the window, the street outside moved on, busy and bright under the streaming sunlight, children running and sparrows picking crumbs near the curb. I pressed the spare key onto the counter and slid it away, far to the backout of sight, out of temptation.

I sipped my tea and stared straight ahead, listening to the clock tick on the wall. The flat was silent, and though my pride ached sharp as a thorn, I let myself be still. For the first time since my boy was small, I didnt jump up to tend to anyone, didnt fold or scrub or fuss or call. Instead I sat and mourned, quietly as the slow falling rain, feeling every ache and loss and love, until my heart ached less and my hands stopped trembling.

Outside, the sun set behind the terraced roofs, spilling golden light onto dust motes that hung in the air. And in that fading glow, I understood at last: sometimes love does not mean holding on, but letting go and finding peace in the quiet that follows. I stood, made myself another cup of tea, and watched as the day turned gently to night, the world carrying on without meand, for the first time, I let it.