I raised my son completely on my own. From the day he was born, he was my entire world. My life revolved around him—every decision, every sacrifice, every long night of work.
I never spent a cent on myself. No vacations. No new clothes. I worked two, sometimes three jobs: delivering mail, cleaning homes, washing dishes—anything to make sure he had what he needed.
When people questioned why I pushed myself so hard, my answer was always the same:
“Because I want my son to have a life better than mine.”
I believed that when I grew old, he’d be there for me. That he’d be my comfort, my home. He used to say,
“Mom, when I grow up, I’ll buy you a house and a nice car!”
And I believed him. He was my boy.
But everything changed the moment she entered his life.
From the very first time I met her, I had a terrible feeling. Cold eyes. A forced smile. She never called me by name—just “you.” No warmth. No respect.
Soon, she started whispering poison into his ears:
- “Why do you keep giving money to your mom? Let her figure it out herself.”
- “You’re not a child anymore. You’ve got your own life now.”
- “Stop letting her cling to you.”
She planted doubt. She made him feel ashamed of helping me. And he listened.
Calls stopped. Visits became rare. When I baked him his favorite pie and brought it over, she wouldn’t even let him take it.
“Tell her to wash her hands before touching our food,” she sneered.
Day by day, I could feel him slipping away from me. Until one morning, he said something that broke me:
“Mom, I want to take you somewhere to rest. Just for a while.”
There was no love in his voice. No warmth. Just a chilling emptiness.
Still, I went. Because he was my son. Because I hoped maybe he had a surprise planned. Maybe it was a getaway. Something kind.
We drove for hours, deeper into the countryside. Far from the city. Far from people.
Then he stopped.
There was nothing around—just empty road, dust, and wind.
“Get out,” he said.
I looked at him. He wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
I stepped out. He closed the door. Drove off. Left me standing there—completely alone.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. My body was frozen. My heart… shattered.
I stood there in silence, numb, as the wind blew around me.
Praying it was a bad dream.
A distant cousin eventually found me. He lived in a quiet village and took me in. Gave me a roof and a warm meal. I didn’t reach out to my son. I couldn’t bear to hear his voice.
Then—exactly one month later—he came back.
He was standing at the gate, crying, barely able to speak. He dropped to his knees and begged.
His wife had left him. Cheated with one of his friends. Emptied their bank account. Left him with nothing but guilt and debt.
He clung to my hands, sobbing.
“Mom, I was wrong. I thought I was doing the right thing, building a new life. But I ruined everything. Please… forgive me.”
I looked at him. I saw the regret, the pain.
But all I could think was:
Do I even need his apology anymore?
Some wounds leave a scar that never fully fades.
If you’ve ever been hurt by someone you loved most, you’ll understand.
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