**September 14th**
Never imagined a chat with my own son could break my heart this way. We’ve only ever had one child—our Thomas, our pride, our joy. From the day he was born, we lived for him, giving all we had: time, energy, dreams. We wanted the best for him—top schools, a warm home, a secure future. For that, my husband, Peter, and I sacrificed our own desires, worked till we dropped, saved every penny. But that evening in our cosy house in Winchester turned everything upside down.
Thomas walked in with a stern, almost grim expression. He sat across from us at the old oak table in the sitting room, like he was about to drop some earth-shattering news. A cold knot of dread twisted in my chest. “Mum, Dad, we need to talk about the future,” he began, eyes fixed somewhere past us. “I think it’s time you wrote your wills.”
I froze. Peter shot me a bewildered glance, and the ground seemed to vanish beneath me. Wills? We’re still full of life—planning a seaside holiday, dreaming up new projects—and our son’s talking about death? “Thomas, why bring this up now?” I managed, fighting the tremor in my voice. “We’re healthy, we’ve years ahead of us.” But he wouldn’t budge. “Mum, age isn’t the point. It’s about avoiding hassles later. I need to know what you’re leaving me.”
His words cut like a blade. Not a shred of care for *us*, our well-being, our future. Just cold arithmetic, as if he were already tallying up our belongings, impatient for us to be gone. I stared at him—the boy we’d raised with so much love—and couldn’t believe it. Had we become just property owners to him? Not parents, but an inheritance to claim?
Peter stayed quiet, studying the table’s grain like it held answers to this nightmare. I battled back tears that stung my eyes. How had our son, the one we’d protected, given everything to, started seeing us as mere assets? I remembered nights spent by his crib, Peter teaching him to ride a bike, our shared joy at his first steps, first words. Now here he sat, demanding legal paperwork, as if we were already halfway to the grave.
“Thomas,” Peter finally said, his voice steady but edged with hurt, “we’ve always put you first. Everything we have is yours. But bringing this up now… it’s like you’re rushing time.” Our son frowned, as if baffled by the pushback. “Dad, I just want things fair and square,” he said, irritation creeping in. “I don’t want quarrels or legal tangles later.”
Quarrels? Tangles? My chest tightened with hurt. Peter and I had never squabbled over a thing—we’d worked as one, for the family, for Thomas. Now he spoke like we were strangers haggling over spoils. Right then, I felt something between us crack, fragile as glass. The love, trust, warmth we’d built over decades—all jeopardised by his words.
I drew a shaky breath. “Thomas,” I said as firmly as I could, “your dad and I live for you, but that doesn’t mean we should be drafting wills this minute. We’re still here, with you. Isn’t *that* what matters?” He shrugged like my words were empty air. “Just covering the bases,” he muttered before leaving us in heavy silence.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. Lying beside Peter, listening to his quiet breaths, I wondered: where did we go wrong? Did we spoil Thomas too much? Give him so much he forgot to value people over possessions? At breakfast, Peter muttered, “He’s still young, Margaret. Maybe he doesn’t realise how it sounded.” But his eyes held the same ache gnawing at me.
A month on, that talk still festers like a splinter. Thomas hasn’t mentioned it again, but I notice him skirting deeper conversations. As if he knows he crossed a line but can’t bring himself to mend it. And me? I’ve started reevaluating everything—what truly counts. Peter and I agreed we’ll write our wills, not for Thomas, but for our own peace. To keep things “fair and square,” as he put it. Yet deep down, I hope one day he’ll see: the real legacy isn’t money or deeds. It’s the love we’ve poured into him, every single day.
Life in Winchester rolls on. Peter and I still plan our seaside trip, laugh at old jokes, light up when Thomas visits. But that evening left its mark—bitter, yet sharp with truth. It reminded us time won’t pause, and to treasure every moment together. And Thomas? I pray he learns in time that family isn’t a contract. It’s a bond built on love, not papers.