My son was my friend and my support throughout life, but after he got married, we became strangers.

I never thought my own son could change so much under someone else’s influence. Javier was always an exemplary young man—polite, kind, always present. He was my only child, and our bond was incredibly strong. We used to spend long afternoons chatting on the porch of my house in the countryside of Andalusia. We shared joys, worries, and many silent moments filled with affection. I always respected his space and never interfered. Everything changed when Lucía came into his life.

At the wedding, the couple received a newly renovated apartment in the center of Valencia as a gift from their parents. I never visited, but Javier showed me pictures: white walls, modern furniture, a cozy atmosphere. I, already widowed and without any savings, wanted to contribute to their new life. I gave them nearly all of my family jewelry—gold necklaces, rings, earrings. I told Lucía, “If you want to melt it down and turn it into something new, feel free.” My only wish was to help them start off well.

But Lucía revealed her true self from the very beginning—cold and calculating. I saw with my own eyes how she mentally counted the euros inside the gift envelopes at the wedding. My chest tightened. I can’t say I didn’t see the signs: that quiet ambition, those measured smiles. Women like her are dangerous—they confuse love with control and partnership with opportunity.

Six months later, she announced that their plans to have children were postponed. “This apartment is too small,” she said. “And Javier isn’t a director yet. Taking out a loan would be crazy.” Her voice was sweet, but her words were filled with cold calculations. I was still living in the unfinished house my husband had built. In winter, the cold pierced through my bones. Then came the blow: “Sell your house, buy a studio apartment for yourself, and give us the rest. Then we could start a family.”

She wanted to reduce me to a tiny space so they could have the rest. She wanted the money—not everyone’s well-being. For a moment, I considered it. If they helped me financially each month… maybe. But I quickly realized: with someone like Lucía, generosity becomes weakness.

Javier came to talk a few days later, trying to justify it: “Mom, do you really need so much space? An apartment would be more practical.” But I stood firm: “This region is growing. In ten years, the property value will triple. Selling now would be a mistake.” I even proposed a fair solution: they could live in the house if they agreed to renovate it, and I’d move into their apartment. Lucía refused. She didn’t want to put in any effort while I was still comfortable. She wants gain without sacrifice—that’s who she is.

Then came the worst part. I became seriously ill—fever, cough, weakness. I called Javier, begging for help: food, medicine. He used to come running. This time, he showed up only the next day. He brought a few loose pills, made some medicine with tap water, and left quickly, saying he had too much work. Thank God for my neighbor Carmen, who brought hot soup and paracetamol. What would have happened to me without her?

For many years, Javier was my sun—my companion, my shoulder, my anchor. But now, it feels like we’re standing on opposite sides of a river. A river named Lucía.

Today, I see a man who once was my son but now carries a different loyalty. He made his choice. Between me and her, he chose her. And even though reason tells me that’s natural, a mother’s heart feels it as betrayal.

I still hope, in silence, that he remembers all we lived through. But each day, that hope fades like mist under the morning sun.

And here I remain, in the cold of this unfinished house… trying to warm myself with the memories of a son who, in some way, still lives in my heart.

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