“My son betrayed me. I never thought him capable of it.” I’ve cut all contact with him, though he keeps trying to mend things. But I can’t face him.
Let me start from the beginning. I raised my son, Oliver, alone.
Years ago, my husband, James, walked out on us, leaving behind a pile of debt and problems. It took superhuman effort just to keep us afloat while bringing Oliver up. James paid child support, of course, but it barely covered the essentials. Now Oliver’s fifteen, and suddenly, his father reappears.
James somehow got hold of Oliver’s number, called him, and asked to meet.
Turns out, my ex-husband is now a successful businessman in Manchester. Money is no object for him—a flashy car, a sprawling house, living the high life. At their very first meeting, he gave Oliver a brand-new gaming PC, the dream of any teenager. A few weeks later, my son—my boy, whom I raised with so much love—packed his things and moved in with his father.
I understand why he did it. His father has money, luxury, opportunities I could never offer. I’m still paying off the mortgage, counting every penny just to make ends meet. But I brought Oliver up to be kind, smart, responsible. He did well in school, played football, always had manners. I thought he appreciated everything I’d done for him.
Yet he turned his back on me, his mother, so easily—all for shiny new toys and a glamorous life.
James hired top tutors to get Oliver into an elite grammar school. Every holiday, they jet off abroad—Spain, France, places I could never afford. The most we ever managed was a budget seaside B&B once a year.
Oliver chose his father. He chose the money, the gifts, the world James offered. He betrayed me, and it’s tearing me apart. I stopped speaking to him. He calls, he texts, tries to reach out, but I won’t pick up. Every missed call feels like a knife to the chest, a reminder of how easily he left me behind.
I can’t forgive James. He didn’t just abandon us fifteen years ago, drowning me in debt and despair. Now he’s stolen my son, my only child. He bought Oliver’s love with expensive gadgets and promises of a better life. I feel humiliated, discarded.
I always tried to raise Oliver right—to value family, to be grateful, to respect those who sacrifice for him. But it seems I’ve raised a monster who traded his mother for wealth.
My friends try to comfort me. They say living with his father will give Oliver prospects I couldn’t provide—top education, connections, a future. But their words ring hollow. They don’t know how it feels to be betrayed by your own child. Let them walk in my shoes! Their hearts would shatter too.
Oliver calls almost every day. Sometimes he texts: *Mum, I’m sorry. Please talk to me.* But I can’t. Not now. His choice was a slap in the face, proof that all my love, all my sacrifices, meant nothing. He picked the father who abandoned us, who wasn’t there when I stayed up late staring at bills, wondering how to feed us.
I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him. Maybe years from now, the pain will fade. Maybe I’ll find the strength to speak to him again. But right now, it’s too much. I feel hollow, as though I’ve lost not just my son, but part of myself.
Sometimes I imagine him in James’s big house, glued to that new computer, packing for another holiday. And it hurts all over again. Why didn’t he think of me? Why didn’t he stop to wonder how I’d manage without him?
My friends tell me to let go of the anger, that Oliver’s just a boy, that he never meant to hurt me. But I can’t. A child’s betrayal isn’t just pain—it’s a wound that won’t heal. I gave him everything I had, and he left without a second glance.
I don’t know how to move forward. Every morning I wake up thinking of him, and every day, the grief claws at me. Maybe I’m being too harsh. Maybe I should forgive. But how do I forget that my own son, my flesh and blood, turned away from me so easily?