Once upon a time, my daughter-in-law adored me and considered me almost a second mother. She would often visit me even without my son, and we could spend hours drinking tea and chatting about life. But everything changed in just one year. Now she doesn’t want to talk to me, not even on the phone, and perhaps she even hates me. Let me say right away: I am to blame for everything, and only I am to blame. I single-handedly ruined my relationship with my daughter-in-law and destroyed my only son’s marriage.
When Philip first met Ellen, I immediately realized he was in love. He could talk for hours about how beautiful and wonderful she was. I was genuinely happy for him because he had finally found someone who truly made him happy.
About six months later, Philip decided to introduce me to his beloved. I liked the girl a lot too. My son was radiant with happiness when he was with her. At that moment, it seemed to me that out of all the girls he had dated, Ellen suited him the most.
My son worked as a sales manager at a company selling construction materials. He earned a decent salary but was saving up for his own place, so he lived with me in a two-bedroom apartment.
About eight months after they started dating, Philip bought a ring for Ellen and decided to propose. I didn’t try to dissuade him or ask him to think it over, as many mothers in my position might have done. Though I thought it was a bit early for him to get married—he had just turned 24, and Ellen was a couple of years older—I supported his decision.
We invited Ellen and her parents to our home for dinner, and Philip proposed to her in front of everyone. I must say, Ellen’s family turned out to be absolutely wonderful. We hit it off from the very first meeting. I could hardly believe everything could go so smoothly, as most families face some challenges in communicating at this stage. We split the wedding expenses evenly, and after the ceremony, the newlyweds moved into an apartment that Ellen had inherited from her grandmother.
A few months after the wedding, I began to notice conflicts arising in my son’s family. Philip started coming to my place on weekends and wasn’t in a hurry to return home. In a way, this was to be expected. A husband and wife need time to adjust to each other’s habits, observe each other’s behavior in everyday life, and many things might not sit well with them. Things can’t always be perfectly smooth, especially since the young couple hadn’t lived together for more than a week or two before the wedding.
I was very worried about him but tried not to interfere. But one day, Philip showed up with nearly all his belongings and said that until their conflict was resolved, he’d have to stay with me. I asked what happened. He said they had a fight, and his wife kicked him out of the house. A few days passed with Philip living at my place, then Ellen came over, they talked, and they went back home together.
But such incidents started happening more and more frequently. My son, like a beaten dog, would return to his childhood home with a small bag of belongings.
Soon, my daughter-in-law announced she was pregnant. Amid this joyful news, Ellen and Philip reconciled and lived peacefully for a while. But just before the baby was born, their conflicts escalated again. When I saw Philip at my doorstep once more, my patience snapped. He was noticeably drunk, holding a bag, with a scratched-up face. I knew my son barely drank alcohol, so I was shocked.
I started questioning him, and it turned out he had been celebrating the company’s anniversary at work. The CEO had visited, handed out certificates of appreciation, and there was a reception afterward where Philip had a couple of drinks with colleagues. He didn’t come home too late, but Ellen was furious. She called him a drunk and scratched his face. I was honestly afraid he might have hit or pushed her in response, but he said:
— Hitting a woman, no matter how irrational she’s acting, is unacceptable.
I could see how much pain he was in from everything that was happening. His suffering was written all over his face. I no longer recognized the cheerful, lively young man he used to be. Now he was more like a man worn out by life, with the sorrow of a broken marriage etched on his face.
At that point, I decided to step in. I told him, given the situation, it would be better for him to file for divorce. Not to abandon the child, of course, but they shouldn’t live together anymore. Philip thought it over for a few days and eventually filed for divorce.
Only then did he tell his wife. She came running to me while Philip was at work. At that point, she didn’t know I was the one who had pushed him toward divorce and wanted to ask for my help.
I honestly told her that I was the one who suggested he file for divorce. I was fed up with how she treated my son, worse than a dog—kicking him out onto the street, attacking him.
When I admitted my role, she immediately caused a scene. We talked for a long time, mostly in raised voices. She said that I, and only I, was to blame for their family falling apart. In her opinion, if I hadn’t welcomed him so warmly and given him a place to go, he would have tried to resolve their conflicts instead of slamming the door.
Philip and Ellen weren’t divorced; the court postponed the case until their child turned one. Ellen gave birth to a girl, but she cut off all contact with both me and my son. I still haven’t seen my granddaughter.
My son fell into depression and started drinking. If I could go back in time, I wouldn’t have meddled in the young couple’s conflicts or welcomed my son into my home after their fights.
Now, my only goal is to help my son get his life back on track, but how do I do that?
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