It all started when my son, Ryan, brought home Lydia, a woman 20 years older than him, and announced she was moving in. At first, I said nothing, but I had a plan. Soon, they’d realize the weight of their actions, but by then, it was too late.
For years, I wanted Ryan to be happy and find someone to love him as much as I did my late husband, Daniel. After Daniel’s death three years ago, this wish grew stronger.
Ryan, always a free spirit, started maturing in his late teens. He eventually graduated, got a stable job, and began traveling, which made me happy—even though I wished he’d focus more on his future.
At 30, Ryan still lived with me, which I didn’t mind. But after Daniel’s passing, I longed for him to find a partner. He eventually told me about Lydia, a woman he met in Paris, who was smart and passionate about art. I was eager to meet her, imagining a young, vibrant woman. But when the time came, Lydia was much older—only five years younger than me.
Over dinner, Ryan casually announced that Lydia would be moving in. I was shocked, but I didn’t want to lose him, so I reluctantly agreed. However, things quickly grew uncomfortable. Lydia started changing my home, taking over the bathroom, and cooking only for herself and Ryan. She even suggested I move out for her office.
Frustrated, I signed the house over to Ryan. A month later, Lydia called, angry about the bills and mortgage she hadn’t expected. I calmly reminded her that owning a home wasn’t just about redecorating. They begged me to take the house back, which I did.
Through this, I learned a hard lesson about my son and his priorities. While I still love him, I’ve decided to start putting myself first.