Ten Years of Silence: How My Husband Can’t Forgive My Mother for One Word
We’ve been married for fifteen years. We have a growing son, a cosy home in Surrey, and on the surface—everything seems normal. But there’s one crack that deepens with each passing year. That crack is between my husband, James, and my mum.
Once, ten years ago, they had a falling-out. An argument, a flare of temper, a wound. I don’t even remember how it started—maybe Mum phrased something poorly, maybe he took it too personally. But James remembered. And he never forgave. Ten years have passed. Ten years of cold silence, stubborn indifference, a refusal to acknowledge her existence.
Now Mum is growing older. She lives alone in an aging flat in Croydon. Dad passed away three years ago, and since then, there’s been no one to support her, no strong shoulder to lean on. The wiring in her flat is faulty, the washing machine’s been broken for years, the kitchen floor is uneven. I beg James to go and help, even just to hammer in a nail. But he stares back, stone-faced:
“If you want it done, you go. I won’t set foot in her place.”
I can’t say he’s a bad man. James is a wonderful father, a caring husband, diligent at work. But if someone hurts him—even unintentionally—that’s it. They’re erased from his life. Year after year, his grudges harden into walls no one can break. I don’t understand how, even in the face of age and frailty, he can’t take a step back.
Mum never complains, but I see it. She holds on as best she can, not wanting to put me in the middle. But I know she struggles. Her blood pressure spikes, her heart gives her trouble. Medicines are pricey, doctors are booked weeks ahead. I hire plumbers, electricians, carry her groceries, pay the bills. And deep down, the fear grows—what if something happens tomorrow and we’re not there?
I’ve tried talking to James. Pleading with him. Telling him none of us are eternal, that she may not have many years left. He listens, nods, then says the same thing:
“Don’t give me tears. She knew what she was doing.”
His mother warned me before we married.
“James has a stubborn streak. If he holds a grudge, it sticks. Be ready.”
At the time, I brushed it off.
“Love conquers all.”
But ten years on, I’m living with that stubbornness. Love may be strong, but it’s not all-powerful.
Because of it, we have almost no friends. A petty quarrel here, a perceived slight there. Most relatives have drifted away. I carry it all myself. But my strength is fading. Our son is growing, and I fear he’ll take after his father—learn never to forgive, only to withdraw. I don’t want my child to live with a stone where his heart should be.
Soon, I’ll have to make hard choices. Mum can barely manage alone. I can’t abandon her. But I don’t want to lose my family either. Though, truth be told, this marriage often feels less like a partnership and more like servitude—cook on time, listen on cue, and never ask for too much. All I want is a little kindness toward my mother.
I don’t know what’s next. Maybe one day, James will soften. Or maybe not. But one thing’s clear: love isn’t just about endurance. It’s about understanding, about forgiveness. And if someone can’t forgive, they’re capable of cold indifference. That’s something I don’t think I can live with much longer.